


Stories from the Sands

by AugustPendragon



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Abuse, Desert, F/M, Fuck Or Die, Gladiators, M/M, Master/Slave, Original Fiction, Original Universe, Rape, Threesome, Twins, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-23 06:56:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 34,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23007523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AugustPendragon/pseuds/AugustPendragon
Summary: Raphael departs Amakiz for the south.[AMOG fragments]A series of discarded chapters that would have fallen after Chapter 3 of A Memory of Green, and eventually culminated in Raphael's return and the start of Chapter 4.
Kudos: 2
Collections: A Memory Of Green





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is very much a raw document, so typos and autocorrect accidents abound, but I thought it might be enjoyable all the same.

They departed short days after.  
All wrongs had been set right, the pact between the warlord and the emperor renewed, and now it was time for Raphael to pay his services; the brutal elimination of any of the southern tribes primitive or stupid enough to threaten the borders of the desert's greatest nation. His efforts, in turn, were repaid by Amakiz with ample supplies of fine food, grown upon the lush soil of the oasis; more food than the drier parts of the desert could have provided in many long seasons.  
Or something like that, anyway. Luke listened to everything, but things which didn't lend themselves to escape (in other words, just about everything) were simply filed away. Politics had interested him once, in his own village, but here the words of liars and demons drew nothing from him but disgust.  
No, his mind was set on the trip forward. He didn't want to think about riding all the way to the desert's southwestern edge with a fractured rib. He didn't want to think about /Alphonse/ riding all the way there with a fractured rib. Yet he thought of it all the same, of pain, of heat, of thirst...  
And found none of it. In a surprising display of human decency Raphael had them loaded up in one of the supply wagons instead, the two settled on soft pillows out of the sun, resting and healing under the watch of a single soldier.  
From what he could tell, the task of watching them was a coveted one; some valued it for the dark and the comfort, while he guessed others enjoyed simply watching... them. He tried not to dwell on it.  
There was one thing to be grateful for, however, and that was that Prince had chosen to ride alongside Raphael; the boy had babbled some idiocy about 'being honored to ride upon his master's lap,' which had pleased the warlord immensely, but still mostly seen Prince riding on his own pony--desert animals were taxed enough carrying the weight of one beneath the heat, much less two.  
Luke felt a little guilty about that. He knew it wasn't Prince's fault, that he'd been made what he was by monsters pretending to be men, but even so the thought of spending weeks having to listen to the boy's twisted enthusiasm made him quite ill.  
Because, even if the riding was easy, the nights were far from it.  
Raphael never laid a hand on him--and, more shocking, he never laid a hand on Alphonse. His warped display of mercy seemed to be stretching on, as if the man actually cared about their comfort and their wounds. While this was an improvement, other things compensated by worsening. He woke one night from yet another nightmare to find the warlord staring not at Prince, not at Alphonse, but at HIM, looking far too hungry. He'd stared back, eyes dilated and mind blank, until at last satisfied by something he couldn't comprehend the man had looked away. Luke had not fallen asleep again.  
Then there was Prince.  
The boy was overeager to please, and Raphael was overeager to be pleasured. The two made no effort to hide their lusts, Alphonse and Luke simply turning away and trying every subtle trick they could think of to block out the sounds, the other two working at one another like dogs in heat. They couldn't... do whatever they fancied counted as sex, but they did everything else, rubbing and rutting and stroking and sucking, bestial grunts and gasps clotting the already heavy air.  
Until two weeks passed. Until his and Alphonse's wounds were almost healed. Until Prince's was completely.  
He had been aware of the former, but he hadn't been aware of the latter until they'd bedded down for the night. The tents had been raised, Raphael stepping in after them, simpering slave in tow. Before Luke even had the chance to turn away the man had ripped the boy's clothes away, and slipped a finger inside--  
The priest grimaced violently in disgust, eyes snapping closed, but the pleased moan that broke from the little one's lips echoed clearly. Raphael smiled.  
The warlord did not continue his efforts. He set Prince down gently and drew away, the blonde barely fighting back a cry of dismay at the neglect. But it seemed Raphael still had desire on the mind. Just a different plan for it.  
Settling down, cross-legged, he smiled at Prince--already crawling eagerly towards him--and at Alphonse, who had turned his back towards him. He brushed the former's hair as he squirmed in close, but when he spoke, he addressed both.  
"Now that your wounds have healed, I believe it is time for you to become more familiar with one another... and in your case, Prince, you with me. To begin, I would like you both to suckle me, together."  
The black words dropped so casually from his lips. Luke bit down hard on his tongue to keep from screaming.  
Turned away from him as he was, there was no way for the warlord to watch the boy grimacing at his words, although perhaps he would have done it all the same even if he could see him. Despite his obvious discomfort at the idea, the boy stood up.  
The warlord had already stripped away his shame of being seen by others, taken away the hope of having a home to return to some day, and showed him there were things worse than death, and he would get to know them if he disobeyed. To be quite honest, death looked much more like a gift with every passing day.  
Still dressed, the boy walked over to the warlord, dropped to his knees unceremoniously beside the other boy, wincing softly as it jolted his still sore side. Prince meanwhile was blushing and gazing at Alphonse in awe, despite the fact that the other boy had made his dislike for him quite clear. So distracted was he that Alphonse was the one to undo his master’s pants instead of him.  
He shook his head slightly and shifted his attention back to his master as his cocked bobbed upwards, already erect despite none of them having touched him yet. Without even hesitating, Alphonse moved forward, mouth open. Raphael stopped him with a hand against his forehead, smiling.  
“What have I always told you Alphonse? Savor it, remember?” The warlord told him with a smile.  
Alphonse glared at him briefly, but his apparent resistance was just for show. Soon enough his tongue was upon the warlord’s cock, running up his length from the base to the tip. With a needy little whimper, Prince moved to join him, leaning forward beside the other boy, both of their arm breathes washing over the length of Raphael’s dick. The two blondes’ heads crowded around his crotch, each taking a side.  
Sitting on the floor as he was, the two boys were forced to lean down to reach his dick while they held themselves up on their knees, their sides rubbing against one another, bottoms swaying up, giving Raphael a lovely view. He was having a hard time deciding what looked better; their faces pressed so close to one another around his dick or the way their bottoms were tantalizingly raised in front of him.  
Alphonse was simply going through the motions, going up and down, but Prince made up for it, setting up a rhythm with the other. Sometimes both of their tongues would rise at the same time around his length, meeting at the tip, briefly rubbing against one another before Alphonse drew back to settle against the base of him. Other times Prince went for the base of his cock while Alphonse was at the tip.  
Either way, Alphonse was doing his best not to touch the other blond. At one point, when he would have moved to suckle at the tip of the warlord’s dick, he pulled back as Prince went to join him. Or at least, he tried to. Raphael’s fingers curled into his hair, keeping him from pulling away, and then he pushed him forward, holding him there and forcing him to stay by the other blonde’s side.

Raphael groaned as he watched his two beautiful slaves kissing one another, the tip of his cock trapped between their mouths as their tongues rubbed one against the other. He came then in both of their mouths; one hand still holding Alphonse still while Prince remained willingly there.  
When it was done, he let Alphonse go, and the boy pulled back and sat up. Prince, meanwhile, hungrily licked his shaft clean, lapping up and swallowing up to the last drop of white. When he was done with that, he went for Alphonse. He took the other boy’s face lovingly in his hands, began licking his face clean, drew close, and kissed him. More surprising was the fact that Alphonse let him.  
There was no kissing the other boy back or holding or stroking, however. It was simply a matter of preference. He would rather the boy kiss him clean than having to swallow the warlord’s seed in his mouth. As such, as soon as Prince had done his job he drew back, sat down, and stared blankly at the floor, waiting for Raphael’s next order.  
"You're both so beautiful."  
His voice was thick and tight, and when he reached out to stroke their faces, his hands were shaking. Let the emperor keep his green yards and cool orchards; the greatest wealth in all the desert was here, in his hands, two shining flowers plucked at the height of their beauty. Raphael understood very well what blessings had been granted to him, and he would not let them be wasted.  
Prince mewed and purred and pressed happily into his caress, while Alphonse remained as cold as ever, eyes unfocused as his master gently rubbed behind his ear. The similarity of their appearance only emphasized the differences in behavior, and Raphael couldn't tell whether he relished or resented that truth. For the moment, it didn't matter.  
His fingers walked their way down their faces, down their chests, down their bellies--slipped smoothly between the folds of their legs. Prince made himself most available for his master, keening in delight and thrusting his little cock into the man's gentle squeezes, while Alphonse played his usual game; temporary resistance, the inevitable break, the soft cries tearing from his lips as the pleasure defeated him. Unfortunately the boy was still robed, concealing much of the show from his master's sight, but that was remedied with a soft whisper of order. The slave pretended not to hear, earned a harsher squeeze as a result, and then finally Alphonse peeled open the front of his clothes, the edges of the robe hanging limply over his shoulders and the front of his trousers pushed downwards, letting the warlord watch as his work made him hard.  
No matter how many times he saw them--touched them--Raphael couldn't get over their beauty. Their bodies might have been sculpted; the warm smooth thighs, two rosy little nubs dotting their thin chests, the softness of their bellies--and then their manhoods. The term was used only to humor them; they were too small to properly please any woman--or any man, for that matter--shapely little things that existed only to be admired and given pleasure, the hard skin flushed with blood, the white pearls of seed growing at the tips contrasting starkly. Yes, everything ABOUT them showed that the god had crafted them as toys, meant to be cared for and played with by others, for such sweet fragile bodies could serve no real purpose. Raphael wished so badly that Alphonse would see that. Prince certainly did.  
Their master had imagined so many delightful possibilities over the past weeks that settling on which to enact first had been difficult. But soon his thoughts had resolved, and accordingly he gave his orders more swiftly, directing his playthings as he thought best. Ordering Prince to wiggle a bit farther forward--making Alphonse do the same--until he was able to grasp both their sexes in a single firm hand, squeezing them steadily as his other moved to caress their sacks. Prince wrapped shivering arms around Alphonse, moaning openly and raining down trembling kisses, all while the other blonde shuddered with bleaker emotion.  
Raphael didn't look up from his work when Luke hissed in misery. He did, however, smile.  
"Don't blame yourself for being too weak to save them, priest. Simply be thankful that I haven't--yet--asked you to join."  
Luke curled up into an even sharper ball than he'd already formed, and his nails drew blood where they clutched at his skin.  
It was the way Alphonse grimaced at that, more than any thoughts of the priest's skin, that made Raphael intrigued by the idea. It wasn't a matter he planned to address now, though; he'd waited near a month to have the two younger blondes on each other, and he wasn't about to meddle with the composition of which he'd dreamed during their first bout.  
His fist clenched and both his pets came in unison, sharp shudders and sharper cries, Prince pathetically bucking his hips as their members made little white jets in the dusty air.  
Release, in Alphonse's mind, represented a double-edged sword. Misery in how it came about. Worse misery if it was denied. Yet despite the misery there was a comfort in it, his thoughts going blank and dark, forgetting he was in hell for as long as it lasted. In that way, it was better than sleep; the night held nightmares.  
But--as with all the other things that promised him false peace--it was worse when it was over than when it began. So lost had he been in his orgasm that he wasn't even aware when he'd been pushed back against the floor, or when the other boy had crawled atop him, small erection hanging above his lips.  
Raphael, meanwhile, had taken a position at Prince's backside, gently working into him a lotion meant for far different purpose than the one he'd used to treat his wounds. The slave whined with blatant lust at the intrusion, eyes wide and blank as he peered back at his lord, the man chiding him gently in response.  
"Focus on pleasuring your brother, Prince, not on me. And be careful, now, he's still a little sore."  
Raphael never failed to surprise him. Whenever he thought the man had humiliated in all the ways possible, he came with a new, more horrifying one to top it all. He’d closed his eyes almost as soon as he’d opened them blocking the view of the other boy’s crotch hovering over his face, the warlord’s fingers pushing and rubbing inside him. He shuddered and gagged.  
That motion was enough of an opening, and then he found Prince’s shaft pushed into his mouth. He did not struggle, knowing he could not escape it, but even then all he did was hold the thing inside his mouth, not making any motion to suckle or lap the boy while he kept his eyes clamped shut.  
For whatever reason, the boy did not tell on him, didn’t really seem to care. He was shivering with excitement; rapid breaths washing over Alphonse’s own manhood while the warlord worked his fingers inside him. Prince was an obedient; slave, so at his master’s words, he shifted his attention towards Alphonse. The boy’s erection was rapidly fading, but he would soon change that.  
He treated Alphonse very much in the same way he had done with the warlord the first time he had pleasured his manhood. One long lap across his whole lengths had him shivering, and then he took him into his mouth and began to suckle.  
The pleasure that wracked the boy’s body at that moment forced his eyes open with a muffled yelp, just in time for him to watch the warlord pushing his cock slowly into Prince’s entrance right above his face, in turn pushing the boy deeper into his mouth. Alphonse gagged and closed his eyes, shuddering and whimpering while the other’s suckles filled his own body with pleasure. 

Even then, no amount of pleasure was enough to distract him from the hell happening right before him. The warlord soon set up a rhythm, the sound of flesh smacking against flesh coming from inches atop him, Raphael’s heavy sack rubbing against his face each time he buried himself in the younger boy’s flesh, drops of salve specking his face, the two practically sitting on his face.  
Hah, by the gods of sun and sand he was blessed! The Silver Jewel wasn't even doing anything to actively pleasure him, was simply letting himself be ridden, and he STILL--  
Oh, he remembered that day, the little toy lying almost completely broken on the pavement, his entrance clotted with blood and the spillage of many men. He was no virgin. And yet he was so tight, almost as if he'd never been used at all, his small size a virtue that made the warlord's every thrust into that warm wetness a miracle of euphoric pressure. That was enough--that was more than enough--yet Prince went above even that high standard, so diligently focusing on pleasing the other slave, even when a month with nothing but gentle foreplay to sustain him surely meant he was ravenous as well. Raphael had intended to go gently on him if he failed in his task due to distraction, but it seemed he would succeed perfectly fi--  
That was when the boy CONSTRICTED, a deliberate tensing for his master's sake that made the warlord roar aloud with bliss. He dragged up a hand to shakingly stroke Prince's golden hair before he had to dig into the blankets again to brace himself, burying his face against the slave's shoulder, throatily offering up one exclamation of praise after another.  
The pet, however, was already recieving a different treat for his good behavior, and one that he craved far more. After so long spent in the hands of rough men with no thought for his own needs--and then another stretch of time spent without true sex--he was desperate to be satisfied, and Raphael satisfied him very well. The man was strong and experienced, but more than that he was considerate, maintaining a swift and powerful pace without hurting, fingers intertwined softly with his own, the hungry bites he applied to the slim slave's shoulders always pleasing, never hurting. Their lovemaking was mutual and extremely rewarding for both parties--a fact that, unfortunately, didn't apply to the third male below them.  
Raphael thrust hard and far, his considerable size swallowed completely within Prince's body, and then with one last scream of ecstasy he came. Prince responded immediately, releasing in his turn, muffling his own happy shrieks in Alphonse's flesh. The other blonde, meanwhile, struggled to breathe, a few scarce tears running over his skin as his master's heavy pouches rested on him and the other slave's hot seed filled his throat. Misery would have made him weep further, but experience had lessened the point in expressing it.  
But thankfully the same rapturous fire that had brought him to this brought him out of it. Even in release Prince continued his work, suckling fiercely even as he groaned, and that at last brought Alphonse release too. He closed his eyes and let the darkness take him, every muscle coiling in tight pleasure.  
When the waves of heat finally subsided, he could breathe again. Raphael hadn't gone far, but he had at least gone AWAY, the warlord tipped to his side next to him with Prince clutched in his arms, the man covering the boy in tired little kisses as the slave giggled. As if this were fun. As if this was NICE.  
The warlord kept his shaft inside Prince, and the boy relished it, happily rubbing back against Raphael, grinding his hips playfully back against him while he craned his neck as best as he could to nuzzle back against the warlord, seeking his lips for sweet little kisses.  
“A-ahn master, Thank you, that felt so g-good…m-may I…may I service you again? Please…i-it feels so good…having you inside me…”  
Meanwhile, the other blond turned away and spat out Prince’s seed, the warlord too busy kissing and stroking his other slave to notice. He grabbed the nearest pillow and whipped his face clean; some of the warlord’s seed had dripped out onto him when he’d released inside Prince.  
When he was done, a hand quickly shot up to his face, clamping over his own mouth. He could feel the bile rising, his body heaving, and it took all he had in him not to throw up at that moment.  
He ought to throw up though, more than that he ought to throw up on THEM. And then the warlord would have him starved, maybe kick him again, maybe do the same thing to him over and over again as punishment. He swallowed, and removed his hand only when the feeling had gone away, breathing harshly. The tears came again then, the boy shaking as he simply sat there, unable to go anywhere, sob after sob breaking from him.  
"Such sweet things come out of your mouth!" Raphael exclaimed, laughing--before dropping a hand to tease.  
"And elsewhere."  
The slave blushed perfectly on cue, trembling in delight as those rough digits yet again found his sex. But the warlord had something else in mind than teasing the boy with his hand.  
"You may service me, but not directly. I want you to..."  
Alphonse's eyes slowly focused as he realized that Luke was there, in front of him, one hand outstretched to offer comfort. But then the priest violently winced away, at the same time that a crueler hand closed around the slave's ankle, the younger blonde yanked back into the nightmare.  
Raphael held him gently but firmly by one arm as he stripped him, pushing away the last of the boy's clothes, leaving himself as the only one half-dressed among the three. Then he was moving him forward, ushering him to where Prince had planted his face against the blankets and lifted his rump high in the air.  
Alphonse's master kissed him gently, and then nudged him fully into position--behind Prince, his hips pressed against the other boy's. What he was expected to do was obvious, and so Raphael didn't bother saying it, merely ruffled pale hair affectionately.  
"Perhaps you will enjoy this way more."  
The boy shuddered in his hold at those words. He looked decidedly miserable as he gazed down, his hips pressed against Prince’s. As if he would ever enjoy anything the man made him do. He was so utterly disgusting. Why couldn’t he just fuck him, fuck the boy and be done with it? That ought to tickle his dick enough, surely. Instead he insisted on forcing him do the most disgusting things, on dragging down to his level until dirt was cleaner than him.  
He exhaled, and an unhappy little whimper left him along with the air in his lungs, the boy seeming to shrink as he closed his eyes, kept shuddering. He didn’t move to do what the man wished of him, but at the same time he didn’t struggle either. He looked like he would simply crumple down against the other at any moment. He was so, so tired…  
"Alphonse."  
The voice was gentle, but the boy knew--so very well--that the sweetness was a lie. Raphael made such grand displays of compassion often. Flattered himself that he was kind, then answered any continued resistance with cruelty. That was what would come if he disoebeyed. Yet still Alphonse didn't move, even as his master prompted him a third time, a hand settling on his shoulder.  
It was a struggle not to be ill.  
The warlord's eyes slowly thinned out, only to relax, the man instead rubbing at his forehead in a display of his own weariness. Alphonse was such a naughty pet. A few months ago he'd have struck the boy for such misbehavior, but the same... whatever it was that had led him to go without fucking his slave for months while he healed kept him still now. At least in terms of inflicting pain.  
Alphonse moaned audibly in misery as his master pulled him back, away from Prince. He had displeased his lord and now he'd suffer for it, even more than he would if he'd just complied--  
Instead of feeling beads thrust down his slit or the harsh sting of a thong against his back, the boy felt himself nestled in Raphael's lap, the larger man hooking an arm around his side--the uninjured one--and holding him carefully still as he began to stroke him. Alphonse had gone soft almost as soon as his release finished, nausea and horror swiftly stripping away the remnants of pleasure, but now that it had returned he began to harden anew all too swiftly.  
He didn't struggle. What little resolve he had left let him disobey by virtue of doing nothing, but it wasn't enough to let him actively fight. So he simply lay in Raphael's arms, weak little sobs interrupted every now and then by gasps or choked moans of bliss, his shaft lifting up and up and up at the movements of the warrior's fingers. When the boy was aroused enough to start producing cum the man stopped, sliding him gently down to the pillows until only his head and shoulders rested on his lap, his arms interlocked firmly with Alphonse's to keep him still.  
"Service him, Prince. I will be serviced myself in watching."  
As his master spoke the boy sat up, gazed from the boy laid out in front of him to his master, looking distraught for a moment.  
“ I…um….y-yes master”

Alphonse was crying—why was he crying? In all his life, people had only ever been happy to ride him—even those who would make him cry. He couldn’t be worried that he would hurt him, not like this, anyways. He didn’t really want to do it, but master had ordered. Hesitantly he crawled forward, moving until he had straddled the boy’s waist. Alphonse’s eyes remained closed throughout it, the boy sobbing and shivering, but laying limp in the warlord’s hold. He needn’t hold him down at all, the boy wasn’t going anywhere.  
He hesitated only a moment longer, then reached out, ran soft fingers over the boy’s belly, trying to comfort him.  
“I-It’s alright Alphonse, I’ll go slow, it’s not going to hurt at all—right master?” He looked up at his master for approval, the man smiling back at him.

“Right, Prince” Alphonse only shuddered in response, and turned his face away from then, even though his eyes were closed. With his master’s approval, Prince began moving.  
As he had said, the boy was gentle, slowly taking in the other blonde’s shaft inside him, shivering softly and letting out a quiet little moan as the cool metal of the boy’s piercings rubbed against his warm insides. Soon enough he’d taken all of Alphonse inside him, the boy beginning to shudder beneath him for reasons other than misery.  
Prince set up a gentle rhythm, and Raphael delighted himself with watching him, the way the boy expertly moved his hips, took Alphonse in him again and again, the two boys beginning to arch, moan, whimper. Despite his resistance, once more Alphonse’s body betrayed him, and soon enough he found his hips moving against his will to meet Prince’s, his skin flushed as the other pleasured him.  
Raphael had been smiling since they'd begun, but he smiled wider still at that. He had known Alphonse would enjoy it, and now the boy was giving him ample proof. The master stroked his slave's silky hair approvingly, and all the while his cock burgeoned slowly with delight, rising hard and proud not far from where the blonde rested his head. The bells attached to his pet's dick had been left intact, made a soothing sound as they jangled with every soft thrust--and, no doubt, made the experience quite refreshing for Prince, the little thing clearly relishing the strange cold texture as they rubbed inside him. Still, if the pace was swift they were likely to cause hurt to both him and Alphonse; Raphael made a note to remove them beforehand if he ever saw cause to make his two slaves fuck with any real force.  
But for now they were an enjoyable part of the experience. Still--even when surely Prince felt nothing but rapture--the little thing looked troubled, as he had ever since he had noticed Alphonse's tears. The way he had reassured him before beginning had been so sweet, as was his concern now. Truly a kindly young boy.  
There was no reason to fear for his brother, however, and so Raphael decided to take his mind off of it.  
Alphonse knew what it meant when his lord set his head carefully on the blankets, when he felt the man settle before his ass. His heart raced with new terror in his chest, body tensing, falling out of pace--  
Only to feel the warlord's cock not enter him, but press against his own, following him smoothly into the recess of Prince's body. The smaller slave cried out in ecstatic shock at the double intrusion, his master's hands taking him by the hips as he laid a fond kiss upon his neck, Raphael beginning to buck in gentle time with the already established rhythm. Alphonse's bells rolled between their sexes as they pushed in as one, hard and smooth and pleasant as the tightness of Prince's body forced their cocks to squeeze close together around the metal.  
Raphael felt his slave tightening around them at his excitement, the boy crumpling back against him, distracted from the task of obeying his master for the first time ever. Alphonse’s fingers curled against the sheets beneath them, the effect of his shaft held so tightly inside Prince having an effect on him as well, the boy crying out sharply.

“A-Ah, master—yesssss—nngh!” The boy cried out, unresisting in the warlord’s hold as he rode him. The pace was not fast at all, but the combination of their sized and the feel of the metal inside him made up for it.  
“Please…h-harder”  
This was how it ought to be, Raphael decided, nails digging slightly into Prince's skin as he braced for another, harsher buck. The little thing below him wailing pricelessly, and Alphonse succombing to ecstasy as well, the blonde no longer coherent enough to be anything but happy. His master grinned sharply down at him as he watched, his older slave all but limp beneath them, hips working mindlessly as his chest shuddered with soft quick breaths and a fleck of saliva ran down his lips. That sight, combined with Prince arching in his arms, made for a more beautiful vision than he had seen in a very long time.  
Then Prince begged for more, and his lord laughed outright, running a trail of gentle kisses up the boy's spine and neck. The boy was receiving a pleasure the likes of which he'd never felt before, his sweet entrance filled so tight, and still he hungered! Well, he could not be too fierce--the bells were both a blessing and a curse--but he could do a bit more to satiate his lover.  
Their rhythm quickened, their thrusts pushed deeper. Alphonse first, rolling the bells up along the hyper sensitive skin of Prince's insides, and then Raphael following in quick succession, grinding the ornaments beneath them and increasing the wonderful tension for all three of them immensely. The younger slave screamed out in bliss and rocked rapidly against them, and Alphonse followed much the same pattern, gurgling in broken sounds of rapture as his cock was crushed snugly between the greater size of his master and the squeeze of his fellow slave's flesh. In out in out in out in out IN, Raphael seizing Prince's shaft and squeezing harshly just as they all came, three voices rising in perfect harmony as twin spurts of hot fluid filled the smallest to the core.  
When their master rolled tiredly to his side this time, he took Alphonse with him, releasing Prince's shaft to instead wrap his arms gently around his first slave, his newest trapped between them both. His own release had finished enough for him to be coherent, something he appreciated as he watched his two captives reach the shuddering end of theirs, toes curling in the blankets, thin muscles twitching, hot, quick little pulses of Alphonse's seed still warming Raphael's shaft and Prince's insides as Prince, in turn, offered up the rest of his orgasm on Alphonse's belly.  
Prince was the first to recover from the two blonds, and as he did he crumpled against Alphonse, harsh breath intermingling with the other boy’s own. Unfocused eyes looked at him, and then he leaned forward, began lapping at his face. When he’d first released, some of his seed had fallen to spatter against the boy’s face, and Prince was happy to clean him up. When he was done he pressed his lips against the other’s in a tender kiss. The two shuddering in their master’s arms.

As they parted, the older blond croaked out miserably, his own release now finished. He did not bother opening his eyes, but Raphael felt him moving, trying to slip his cock out of Prince’s entrance.  
Briefly Raphael debated keeping Alphonse trapped, but the idea was dismissed almost as soon as it had surfaced. The slave had been naughty, resisting his first orders, but he'd done splendidly in the new position--and given him such a fine show in the process that he was quite content with him for the moment. So the blonde was given free reign to retreat, bells jingling one last time before falling silent, his pet's cock quickly going limp between his legs.  
The man stroked Alphonse's hair fondly with a hand at the same time he nuzzled lovingly at Prince's shoulder.  
"Such good, sweet boys you both are. You did so well. Are you satisfied now, my little princes?"  
Prince let out a happy little chirp at that, rubbing back against the warlord. The motion pushed him deeper inside the boy’s warm entrance…  
“Yes master! Thank you so much!”  
In sharp contrast, Alphonse remained quiet. He did not struggle or try to get away from the warlord. He knew that battle was lost long before he started it. Instead he simply kept his eyes closed and let himself be held, pretended he had fallen asleep from exhaustion.  
Raphael didn't bother stifling a happy grunt as Prince sunk more deeply on to him. Instead he released Alphonse, instead rubbing lightly at one of the more eager boy's raised little nipples, eliciting a giggle and squeak of delight.  
"Even so, perhaps you would like even more?"  
"A-Ah master, you are too kind! I always want more of master inside me!"  
Alphonse yet again felt the urge to throw up. But--oddly--no hands were laid on him. Instead Raphael simply began roughly fucking the other boy where the lay, Prince crying out and grabbing at his brother to brace himself, but not truly pulling him into the sex. Mercifully the connection was short lived, Prince's pleas and Raphael's own wants driving them to seek more, the man rolling further away to put the boy beneath him, powerful body contorting up and down and lean muscles glinting with sweat.  
Raphael knew Alphonse was awake, but didn't feel inclined to ruin the memories of that night's pleasure--the first time all three had become one--with the inevitable cries and struggles of misery. Alphonse knew he knew, and guessed at the reason why, but he didn't dwell on it. Instead he reached out for sleep, mind going blank as the moans beside him began to mix with those in the forthcoming nightmares.  
He'd experience hell again soon enough. He wouldn't spend extra time dwelling on it.

They were about a third of the way to their destination then. The next two weeks carried them yet another third of the way. And, during every night of them, Alphonse suffered.  
Raphael seemed to have developed a sense of humor between their stop at Amakiz, because where he had once snarled and beaten his slave for resistence, he now laughed and found new uses for him. Alphonse's attempts to lay there, half-dead, saw the monster mount him. Sitting motionless where he'd been put had Prince clambering into his lap. Crying, struggling, trying to ignore--all were bent and used against him, his master mocking him in the cruelest way he knew even when he didn't once inflict physical hurt. Prince had seemed very confused at the start of it all, but after weeks of his master showing nothing but 'kindness' to his newfound brother, he thought perhaps the violence his master had displayed in the city was a rare event indeed. Certainly he hadn't shown any more of it, and it had been over a month now!  
And so they had fucked, constantly, endlessly, in a thousand ways Alphonse had already been shown and in countless more which he had not. Raphael in him, Prince in him, both in him, both in Prince, him in Prince, the taste of seed and sweat as familiar to him as water. Many toys were used for their play during the course of those weeks, but he was thankful that none of them were the beads. And every now and then, Raphael even took off his bells.  
Those were the highlights of his life now.  
He wanted to die.  
Even in sleep, that desire remained. The nightmares came in many forms, but of late one was especially persistent.  
Alphonse was at home, green everywhere, the cool shade of verdant forest and stately mountains close beside him. It had been another long day of studying with his brother, learning the skills with which to manage a farm, even if illness kept him from doing the more demanding labor himself. He'd earned a rest, and so he lay beneath the spread of his favorite tree, eyes closed...  
The wind suddenly turned hot, sand flecking his face, and the familiar sounds of his family's voices turned to screams. He kept his eyes shut as a familiar weight settled on him and large greedy hands began removing his clothes.  
Please, he said wordlessly, as another man's body slid deep within his own. Please no. Please, please, please--  
It took him a moment to notice that the voice was no longer his own. He cracked an eye open, blurry with sleep, and saw Luke cowering at the edge of the tent. Raphael was on top of him.  
"Please..."  
"Lucian has shown you what happens when you struggle. Prince has shown what happens when you comply. I will leave you that choice."  
The priest buried his face in his hands, and Raphael resumed undressing him, taking in the sight of his eldest slave's flesh for the first time.  
“What are you doing?” Alphonse’s voice, sharp and nervous. The boy had sat up, glaring at the two, eyes clearer than they’d been in a while. Wordlessly, the warlord turned to regard him.  
“What are you doing?” The same question again, despite the fact that Raphael knew it was quite clear exactly what he was doing, what he intended to do.  
“You don’t even—you don’t even like him, you never did—you wanted him dead—you have me and that other stupid boy—what are you doing?!”  
Raphael gazed at Alphonse evenly, his outer expression unreadable. Inwardly, he wondered whether the boy waking up pleased or frustrated him. He supposed the former would make him quite like Lucian, so he chose the latter.  
"Prince asked me why I hadn't yet taken him. I've decided to see if his body is enough to mediate the contempt."  
The boy had no answer for him, his mouth left open but no words coming out of it. He closed it, gritted his teeth, and glared. Raphael only watched him for a second longer before turning back to Luke. He pressed a hand to the bond’s chest, ran it slowly down, stroking his belly, hooking around the edge of his pants.  
He saw Alphonse stand from the corner of his eyes, but he ignored it, curiously wondering what the boy would do and knowing there was nothing he could actually DO to stop him.  
The boy dropped to his knees besides them. Hands grabbed at his face, yanked at him, and the warlord’s angry hiss was all too soon muffled against the boy’s warm lips. It was nothing like the resisting pecks the boy offered whenever he half heartedly tried to obey his orders, no parched lips pressed closed and then against his.  
He shared his breath with him, the boy’s tongue tasting him, and soon enough he found himself tasting him back. The warlord’s hands left Luke to clutch at Alphonse instead, dragging his slim body closer.  
Their mouths devoured one another until the warlord had to pull back for breath, the boy in his arms gasping as well. He took a few quick ragged breaths, then looked up at his master, eyes determined even as his skin was flushed.  
“You don’t want Luke…you want me…let him go”  
Raphael smiled viciously. In that moment, he was so very happy that he'd left Luke alive.  
"No."  
But that wasn't the master's voice, it was Luke's, the tears pouring down his face even as his voice remained clear and sharp.  
"Alphonse, no, don't--"  
"Be quiet. He was mine, is mine, and will always be mine, whether or not you're involved, and he knows it."  
It was true. Did he think he could have saved Alphonse with his suffering? No. Every action he took--every action EITHER of them took--to prevent pain only created more of it. There was no point in fighting. There never had been.  
Luke flopped to his side, away from them, and bit down hard on his arm to keep from screaming.  
Raphael ignored him utterly. His thirst was for Alphonse and Alphonse alone, his arms crushing him close, ravaging him in another kiss--shaking in excitement as the action was returned. The embrace ended swiftly, the man pushing his slave to his back against the floor and chasing him down, working loose fabric and devouring every inch of skin that presented itself to him. His teeth and lips worked over shoulder and nipple and stomach and thigh, and the boy cried out at his touch, not the half-restrained mockeries he normally gave, but full-voiced noises, and sweet. The sounds he made when Raphael mouthed at his cock were even sweeter.  
The warlord was ruthless in his conquest. In the blur of ecstasy and hatred that had followed his surrender Alphonse had lost much sense of time, but he knew that his release came swiftly. The man sucking and tugging and CONSUMING and then the hot flare of release--and then before he had quite recovered his master was straddling his chest, thick manhood shoved deep into the boy's mouth, Raphael bucking inside his slave's lips with the urgency of his need.  
The boy almost choked at that, trying to cry out at the sudden intrusion in the midst of his release. Raphael paid him little mind, continued bucking into him, and so it took the blond a moment to set a rhythm that allowed him to breath. As he normally did, even now the boy closed his eyes.  
But letting the man claim his mouth wouldn’t be enough to satisfy him, even with a need so big as now. Raphael groaned and tangled shaky fingers in the blond’s silky hair as he began suckling him, his tongue pressing against the underside of his dick and grinding him against the roof of Alphonse’s mouth each time he bucked into him. One of the boy’s hands had moved to the base of him, fingers curling around his hot manhood in an attempt to make the rhythm all the more steady, and at the same time, sending waves of pleasure through the warlord every time he squeezed him. The boy’s other hand went to the heavy sacs below, kneading the soft flesh as best as he could between each thrust.  
Raphael watched every moment of it, licking his lips hungrily as he pushed his sex into Alphonse’s mouth again and again—shivering when the boy let out meek little moans that reverberated all over his skin whenever his cock was wrapped snug in the boy’s throat.  
It was nothing more than what Prince so often did, and yet it was immeasurably better. Raphael felt he was in some waking dream, so improbable and wondrous were the events that were occurring. He swore he would remember every moment of it in perfect detail for as long as he lived.  
Alphonse continued to make noises of bliss as the warlord rode his mouth, as if in some way he shared the pleasure his owner was experiencing. Raphael thrust deep and hard, hissing and snarling and groaning as warm tongue and strong throat worked to please him, the slave's deft hands working wonders on what parts of his manhood he couldn't suckle. The man came to release swiftly and powerfully, pouring his seed down Alphonse's throat, and the boy's eager suckles drank all of it.  
Raphael was more than a little surprised, when he finally--reluctantly--shifted himself free of the boy's lips, to find that his movements were clumsy and shaking--as if he had just made love ten times over, not merely been suckled. It amused him, but something else would delight him far more.  
He slid the boy's thighs upon his and entered him, his sex pulsing, Alphonse's own dick producing a dribble of seed as the boy cried out in pleasure at his entering. But the warlod didn't move immediately to sate the fire burning within him. He simply rolled his hips gently, once, twice, watching how the boy flushed red, how he sang, how his small manhood bobbed as his body was rocked by the motions.  
The man leaned forward then, his hands intertwining with the boy's against the soft carpets, his closeness grinding Alphonse's erection pleasantly between the boy's soft belly and the muscular expanse of his own.  
"Tell me you love me," he said simply.  
The warlord grinded against him one more time as he said this, coaxing yet another moan from the boy, his back arching, pushing them closer together.  
Alphonse’s eyes opened at his words, and he watched the warlord for a moment, breathing ragged, before he let his eyes close again.  
“I…I-I love you, master…”  
"No."  
It wasn't a snarl, but it wasn't gentle, either. It was an order.  
"Don't say it as a slave."  
The warlord thrust against him, the boy crying out and arching. Alphonse shivered for a moment, and then hesitantly opened his eyes, looking up at the warlord. His soft fingers curled gently against his own, trembling.  
“…I love you R-Raphael” His voice broke as he spoke, his face flushed, eyes beading with tears.  
No, no, it wouldn’t be enough, the man would fuck him and then fuck Luke and all of this would be in vain. He would have done all of this in vain…  
Before the warlord could speak again, the small blond trapped beneath him leaned forward, trembling lips pressing against his in a loving, tender kiss.  
It didn't work.  
Raphael yanked away from him and Alphonse knew then it was going to be worse than if he hadn't interfered at all. The man's eyes had narrowed so sharply and yet still they burned. It had been so easy to see it was fake, even when he'd known it was fake all along, and he was going to rape the both of them half to death for ruining his fantasy--  
The man got off him. Alphonse thought he'd stopped breathing.  
Raphael moved towards Luke.  
He felt the boy clutching at one of his leg's before he could reach the priest, the boy clinging to him, burying his face against his skin and shaking his head, trembling against him.  
"P-please, no, I'm sorry--I love you, I l-love you, I'll do a-anything, please!"  
"I've changed my mind."  
Alphonse's mouth opened again, more promises flying out, words coming without deliberate effort as he babbled on and on and his voice broke. Raphael cut him off.  
"I don't want you to say that. I won't touch him. Go back to sleep."  
Luke flinched sharply as Raphael knelt next to him, but the man ignored him, simply grabbed his clothes from where they lay beside the slave. Once they were in his grip he moved away from both of them, hissing curses as he struggled to dress, and then he had swept up his desert cloak from beside the entrance and stepped out into the dark.  
The boy gaped after him. What had…just happened? He was left sitting where he’d been clinging to Raphael’s leg, even after he left. His eyes left the door when the warlord didn’t come back, moved towards Luke, and then finally strayed down to the floor.  
Tears began streaming then, slowly at first, and then all too fiercely, the boy covering his face with his hands and sobbing.

The warlord made his pace briskly into the desert, his men knowing better than to stop him as the cold night wing ruffled his hair and his clothes. He went past the tents, past his guards, deep into the night. He roared into the night as he drew his sword, attacking invisible enemies hiding in the sand dunes.  
There was a rustling sound behind him, the warlord whipping around, sharp sword ready to pierce the heart of his enemies.

Wide blue eyes stared back at him, glinting in the moonlight. They were fixed on his ravenous face, then slowly moved down to follow the path of his arm, to the sword which tip had come to rest an inch or so from his face.  
The boy dropped to his knees, bowed and trembled.  
“I-I’m sorry master! Please forgive me—I deserve none of it! But…b-but I s-saw you leave and…a-and I wanted to…be with you…”  
Raphael let the sword fall to his side, but didn't sheathe it. His blood still spat and boiled under his skin, and he had no intention of returning to the camp until the morning march.  
He turned away from the boy.  
"Go back to the tent, Prince."  
Another wretched whimper, a "yes master," coming from low enough that Raphael knew the slave had bowed. The soft pad of feet starting to turn away, only to pause as the man spoke.  
"You don't need to bother pretending, you know. To not be afraid. Or to like me."  
The boy turned around at that, his eyes widening. A moment later he was by the warlord’s side, clinging to his clothes.  
“N-no, Master—I’m not pretending, I swear! You are most dearest to me master—I’m sorry…a-ah, a slave’s feelings have no value but…b-but…” The boy’s blue eyes looked up at his, so warm where Alphonse’s ere so cold.  
“I-it’s true that…s-sometimes master gets…a-angry….a-and it reminds me of w-what my o-other master d-did when he was angry but…b-but master you are so very kind to me, even when I’m nothing but a lowly slave…How could I not love you?”  
Raphael laughed.  
His leg shifted softly--a foot gently nudging Prince's side. It was a moment before it was powerful enough to be noticeable, but when it was, Prince lost his hold on the other's clothes and toppled over into the sand. Without a word his master turned towards him, blade lifting again, hovering above the other's heart.  
Blue eyes looked at him with frightened confusion, the boy laying on the sand while he looked up at him/  
“M-master? What a-are you..” The warlord’s blade came to rest gently against the boy’s chest. Prince whimpered and shuddered, eyes closing.

“I-I’m sorry master, I-I’m so sorry—I’m just a lowly slave…I-I should have never spoken…” Tears began beading at the boy’s eyes as he lay there, shivering and awaiting his master’s judgment, body tense. If Raphael’s blade hadn’t been pressing against him, he would have moved to bow before him.  
"If you loved me, you wouldn't have been afraid to seek me here."  
The sword withdrew, and--perhaps just as surprising--a warm hand replaced it, pulling the boy in close as Raphael kneeled, Prince sobbing miserably into his master's chest.  
Raphael sighed.  
"I'm sorry, Prince. I shouldn't have scared you. But your love isn't real. It's trained. It's just... a response, something you showed to whatever masters had you before and something you'll show to whoever comes after me..."  
And he was trying to explain this to a slave who could never understand it precisely because he'd been trained. How sage of him. He sighed again and massaged his temples.  
Before he could go on, he felt the boy shaking his head wildly against him, and Raphael looked down, confused. Prince’s fingers curled into his clothes, the boy looking up at him with tears in his eyes.  
“I-It’s not like that master!...I…I-I’m never supposed to say but back there they told me…t-they told me a good slave never f-falls in love…n-no matter how good your master is…they told me, I am just a thing, I s-should never want anything…T-That’s why, I’m such a bad slave—I keep asking m-master to do things I want—I disobey your orders…I’m sorry master” With that the boy buried his face against his chest, muffling his sobs against him.  
The boy he'd just terrified with a sword, unprovoked, was now trying to insist he loved him. That, more than all the rest, proved that it was a lie--that what he was saying now was nothing but a lie within a lie--all practiced words to win a buyer's interest, a master's favor. Damn it all, even if they weren't lies they weren't /real/--just years of brutal training, the boy's head molded from his birth until no amount of effort would ever let him see straight again. No wonder he'd never wanted to buy a trained slave. Because right now, even knowing it all was fake, he wanted to BELIEVE. They were that potent of a poison.  
Raphael knew he should comfort him all the same; he had been in the wrong, was the reason the little thing was shaking so badly in his hold right now. As it was he made an awkward attempt, stroking the boy's back once, gently, before he pushed himself to his feet and stepped away, backing up before Prince could attach himself to his legs again.  
"You don't, Prince. No one could ever love me."  
The desert sand danced strangely in his vision, Raphael squinting, rubbing at whatever dust had worked into his eyes.  
"--I'm sorry. Trying to make a point doesn't excuse what I did. I'm sorry. Now go back to the tent, please."  
The boy shuddered as he spoke, and when he was done he lurched forward, mouth opening to speak again. But as he looked at the warlord, all of a sudden the flame within him was extinguished. Prince shivered one more time before bowing deeply before his master.  
“As you wish, master” He bowed for a moment longer, and then he turned around and began walking away, staggering n the night towards the lights of the camp.  
Raphael wanted to call him back, but something whispered he'd heard enough lies for the day. His words were truth. The trained promises of a slave were nothing.  
He didn't draw his sword again. He simply stared out into the wastes, gritting his teeth hard when he realized the sting in his eyes were tears.

It took Luke a moment to realize the inevitable was no longer inevitable--for the time. It took him another moment to twist around towards Alphonse, the boy weeping brokenly beside him, his entire thin body wracked with pain.  
Behind both of them, Prince stood, hastily dressed, and dashed into the night.  
The priest knew he should say something. It took him longer to realize he should /do/ something. The realization that--for the first time in so very long--they were alone together struck him, and suddenly he felt he knew what he should do. Or should he? His faith prohibited it. But why, why, why else could he have been sent here? He'd thought it was to mediate suffering with comfort, but he had failed in that task time and time again. So, surely, he'd been sent to...  
"You saved me."  
He didn't thank him. What the boy had done was a mercy, but not the sort for which he would want to be thanked. Luke sat up, shifted closer, rested a hand on Alphonse's shoulder.  
"I can't save you. But... if you... if you wish I could..."  
The words wouldn't leave him. Luke stared blankly at his hands.  
"I don't think they'll be back for a while. You wouldn't need to worry about me. When I finish I'll run into the camp and attack someone. Everyone's waiting for an attack, so they'll react before they look."  
The boy looked up at Luke at that, confused through his pain as he watched Luke with reddened eyes.

“W-what...What a-are you saying Luke? You k-know it’s useless, even with a distraction, e can’t e-escape—“ All of s sudden then, the priest’s words seemed to make sense to him, their meaning clicking. His eyes widened, tears halting.  
“I-I… please I—“ Before he could go on, however, the entrance of the tent flapped open. Prince going in swiftly and walking straight to Luke, throwing himself into his arms and sobbing, blabbering something about the master not loving him anymore.  
Alphonse’s eyes narrowed the moment he saw the other boy, a hiss escaping him.  
“All of this…a-all of this is his stupid fault!” Hands fastened rapidly around the boy’s neck, but they weren’t Luke’s hands, and Alphonse could still breath. His fingers cut off any cry the smaller boy could have made, the boy struggling uselessly as Alphonse held him down against Luke.  
Luke had blinked down at Prince when he crumpled into his arms, instinctively seeking to comfort him, rubbing his back. Out of focus and agonized as he was, it took him a moment to realize what Alphonse was doing--and even longer to do anything about it.  
The boy's life was hell as well, even if he didn't realize it. So shouldn't he die, too...?  
"Alphonse, no!"  
His hands grabbed on to the boy's wrists and pried him loose, Prince gasping for air immediately, too busy taking in air to scream. Alphonse continued to try to get at him, struggling viciously, nails slashing at nothing--  
"Alphonse stop, stop--it's not his fault, he was raised like this, he's never been free at ALL. You have to understand that!"  
Still the blonde struggled, and so a moment later Luke pushed Prince away, grabbing Alphonse and holding the thrashing boy close, stroking his hair and closing his eyes against the tears.  
"Stop, Alphonse, stop--I'll do it, I promise, as soon as I can, but please stop..."  
The boy did not stop, kept struggling in his hold, letting out angry screams of his own that were muffled against Luke’s chest. In turn, Prince had dragged himself away from them, pressing against the corner of the tent as he gazed at the two with wide, terrified eyes, trembling fingers clutching gingerly at his own neck as he whimpered.  
“Let.me.go—Let me GO!! This is all his fault—he did this—it all got worse the moment he came here!” Luke didn’t let him go free, and eventually the boy gave up—for now. He whipped to glare at Prince, eyes narrowed as he hissed.  
“You ever so much as look at us—you ever even say our names—I will fucking kill you in your sleep—do you hear me?!”  
Tears bead at the other’s eyes, and the moment the first one slid down his cheek, the sobs began breaking from him as well.  
Luke would have comforted the other boy as well, but as things stood, it didn't seem Alphonse would let him. And between the two, it was the latter who needed comfort more. He sighed and tucked his face down into the pale hair, his own thoughts a clouded mix of anguish and uncertainity even as he continued to reassuringly stroke the other's back. Alphonse's vicious snarls died slowly down into sobs, weaker than Prince's own, and when they went quieter still Luke lay tiredly on his side and coaxed Alphonse to follow suit. The boy was too close to sleep to protest, trading in reality for a shot in hell's chance at a night without dreams, and Luke chose to play the same game. Both fell into an uneasy slumber--and found, soon enough, that their lots had yet again been against them.  
Prince, however, had no nightmares. Or dreams. Or sleep. He remained curled up wretchedly far away from them, rocking himself slowly as the tears coursed down his face, anguished moans and unhappy cries breaking from him every now and then. So lost in misery was he that it took him a minute to register someone had entered the tent, and when he looked up he saw Raphael looking down, frowning.  
"Are you alright, Prince?"  
The boy’s eyes widened as he recognized him, and a moment later he had throws himself desperately at him, clutching at his clothes and burying himself against him as he cried.  
“M-master I…I-I…” From the corner of his eye, he saw a glint of silver, even though its owner remained curled on the floor against Luke. Prince pressed all the closer to Raphael, shook his head.  
“I w-was so a-alone master…I-I had a horrible nightmare…a-and was too afraid to sleep…I-I’m sorry” He cried, keeping himself pressed against the warlord.  
The same miserable logic that had chased him out of the tent had, in the end, been what brought him back to it. As frustrated as he was, deliberately depriving himself of sleep before another harsh day of travel--during which, at any point, their expectations of attack only grew--was foolhardy. Still, he could have made his bed in another tent--none of his army would deny him that, no matter how startled they might be by the intrusion. Yet he had chosen to come back.  
Because despite himself the thought of falling asleep with Prince in his arms comforted him.  
He was thus both relieved and dismayed to find the boy awake when he returned; simply scooping him up would have been easier than listening to him talk, after all. But on hearing the reasons for the slave's restlessness distress turned to concern, and to the grim realization that any terrible nightmares the boy was having now were probably due at least in part to him.  
"It's alright, Prince. I'm here now, and I won't let anything happen to you. You could have slept beside the others while I was away, though. Alphonse might have fussed, but Luke is fond of you."  
He felt the boy tense in his arms at his words, and then he was clinging all the harder to him, shaking his head wildly.  
“N-No! I…I-I o-only want you master” He cried, shifting to look up at the man even as he kept on pressing against him, sniffling sadly.  
“I-I beg you master…p-please hold me…please…”  
"Alright, Prince, I will."  
The boy arched as a hand gently stroked behind his ear, rubbing into the embrace as his master petted him. The man had been kneeling, but now he settled to his side--much as the other two were doing--and he brought Prince with him. The slave caught one last sight of gray before it was hidden behind the comfortably broad expanse of Raphael's chest.  
The warrior rustled the folds of his cloak, tucking them securely around Prince's trembling body before he added his arms as well. The smaller male yielded completely to him, pressing every inch of himself as close to his master as he possibly could, shaking. Raphael nuzzled him softly, his face gentle.  
"If it'll help, you can tell me what the dream was about. If you don't want to, you don't have to."  
The boy shuddered again, let out a soft whimper, his fingers curling into his clothes.  
“I…I-I…there was…” The boy was suddenly interrupted by the rustling sound of his others slaves shifting in their sleep. Prince tensed at the sound, and pressed closer to Raphael, beginning to sob.  
“T-There was a h-horrible monster m-master,,,it wanted to take me away from y-you…I couldn’t b-breathe…”  
"It's alright, Prince, it wasn't real. Nothing will take you away from me, I promise."  
Still... the boy's story reminded him uncomfortably of another incident, one with Alphonse, a strange choking rattle where his breathing should have been smooth and unrestricted. He doubted this particular case was anything more than what Prince claimed it was--a bad dream--but something still drove him to look the boy over.  
His hands moved carefully over Prince's clothing, checking that nothing had gotten too tight, no loose strings or overly taut ties squeezing his chest. There was nothing, and so he parted his shirt fully, worriedly looking for some sign that his idiocy with the sword had cut or bruised. Nothing but soft pale skin greeted him, the slave whimpering softly as he stroked a hand up his chest, examining. Nothing, nothing, nothing...  
...Something.  
Faint scratches, so light along the boy's neck that they could only be felt rather than seen in the dark, and would have been lost completely in a day or two. Double imprints of thumbs close to the wind pipe, and then the scratches of more fingers further along, forming the shape of small hands...  
"Who?" He growled, but he answered the question even as he asked it. He pushed himself up on his elbows and turned his head slowly to regard Alphonse.  
The boy by his side began crying, burying his face in his hands while his master growled. The other boy, whom he’d thought had been sleeping, rose up at that, walking away from Luke and sitting down in the middle of the room, narrowed eyes fixed on his as he silently waited for the man to beat and rape him for what he had done.  
“I-I’m sorry master, I’m sorry—i-it was all my fault! P-please don’t be angry—please, I just want to rest with y-you master!”  
Prince was ignored entirely. Raphael rose slowly to his feet--never breaking eye contact with Alphonse, from the moment he stood to the time it took for him to move to stand before his most errant of slaves. Both their expressions were almost calm, as if what was about to come was something they'd rehearsed many times over. In a way, perhaps it was.  
His hand lashed out, seizing the front of the boy's shirt and yanking him up to eye level, Alphonse's feet dangling well over a foot above the floor. Raphael's voice was very soft.  
"Why? Was it because I told you he asked about Luke?"  
Alphonse narrowed his eyes.  
"I told him not to touch me anymore, he wouldn't listen"  
"That is a poor reason to lash out at your brother, Alphonse."  
Voices so soft they might have been conversing about poetry. About dinner. About anything but this.  
Raphael looked slowly from the boy to Luke--still asleep, a testimony to the unnatural quiet--and then back up again.  
"If you ever threaten him again. Or hurt him. Or gods forbid, kill him, I will do much more than rape you and Luke both. I will make you beg for me to treat you as I did before. And I will make him beg for me to treat him as I will have started treating you. That is the depth of hell into which I will plunge you both. Is that understood?"  
The boy looked away and said nothing. Raphael struck him viciously across the face. Blood glittered where nails left gouges.  
"Is that understood, Alphonse?"  
"...Yes."  
"Good."  
Raphael set the slave back on his feet with a restraint that somehow felt more malignant than if he'd simply dropped him. With that he returned to Prince, tucking the shuddering boy close, murmuring softly to him.  
"Shh, shh, Prince, it's alright. He won't hurt you again, and he and Luke are fine. Shh, it's alright."  
The boy clung back to him even as he sobbed, burying his face against his master’s chest.  
“I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I-I’m so sorry…” He kept blubbering, until his apologies finally faded into sad little hiccups.  
His other slave simply dropped where he’d left him, not bothering to crawl back towards Luke, simply curling up on the floor in the middle of the room.  
It was very strange.  
Where the past three weeks had been some of the most miserable he'd endured since Raphael had bought him (some of the most, but not /the/ most--he shuddered and tried not to think about the garden), the three that followed were... almost peaceful.  
Despite his expectations, Raphael had not beaten and raped him. Or, more shockingly, done so to Luke. The only difference in routine that greeted them the morning after that wretched night was that he and Luke had been loaded back up on their mare and pony, respectively, and made to ride horseback rather than in the wagon. With their wounds healed, riding hadn't been unpleasant, and in some ways the focus required to stay on their charges was more of a relief than it would have been to lie undistracted from their thoughts in the caravans.  
The evening that followed was different, too. Alphonse was ignored. Hell, the man didn't even stick around to look at him. He'd nuzzled at Prince and said something about going out for a drink and then he'd picked up the boy and gone out.  
Unfortunately, this had not given Alphonse a chance to die--a very watchful guard had been left at the tent's entrance when Raphael departed this time--but it did mean he didn't have to spend the night in the warlord's clutches. When the master and his whore had come back hours later (the latter giggling, red-cheeked, and now wearing nothing but Raphael's shirt), they had simply curled up together and gone to sleep. And it continued for nearly three weeks.  
At the end of them, Prince was firmly convinced Raphael loved him again (something he whispered confidently to Luke, when Alphonse was elsewhere), Luke was again wrestling with the implications of taking a life (something he didn't confide to anyone), and Alphonse was (marginally) less miserable than he had been before.  
And then they arrived.  
The mountains had loomed into vision several days past. As massive as they were, they ought to have been visible long before then, but the perpetual swirl of desert dust had concealed them until the very end. From what the slaves had overheard during their marching, their destination was a settlement known simply as "Bakkor's Town," after the rather questionable man who served as its governor. It was one of very few places in that region that was on good terms--or at least reasonable ones--with Amakiz, trading precious ores and mercenaries for livestock and slaves. It was also popular, among some crowds, for its arenas.  
It was to one of these that Raphael planned to travel first. Their quarry were elusive and swift, and chasing them along through the desert would swiftly exhaust their supplies of water and strength. Instead, they would gain an estimate of their prey's whereabouts from one of the town's more talkative occupants, and then sweep down on them along the mountain borders. The peaks were treacherous, but they also contained water and game for those who knew how to find them--something the desert did not.  
The talkative person in question was none other than Bakkor's second in command--and the manager of the town's largest arena. He had an air for ceremony, and that meant he wouldn't speak a word of business until he'd treated Raphael to the sight of an arena match. Hench the visit.  
Raphael's camp had just settled down at the outskirts of their destination. Their trip that day had been brief; the sun was still not set, althought it was heading there quickly. The warlord was readying to depart, and giving his slaves--or at least one--a choice in whether they came with him.  
"There will be people fighting there, Prince. Some might die. If you don't want to watch, you can stay here. Luke will be here to keep you company, and some of the men from our meetings. I won't be angry if you do."  
The boy in his arm whimpered at that, looking sadly up at him.  
“I-I don’t want to see people d-dying master” He squeaked, moving forward and nuzzling his way gently under his chin, shivering. His fingers curled into the warlord’s clothes, and his shivering lessened as he spoke the next words.  
“But I will go if you wish for me to be there master…maybe you can hold me and I can hide against your chest so I won’t be afraid” That was almost a purr, the little thing pressing himself against his master, the man feeling the beginning of a smile as the boy pressed his face against his skin.  
Raphael laughed at that, ruffling his pet's hair.  
"Well, alright, I'll take you along--although you do seem /so/ reluctant. But we're probably not going to have a chance to do anything more... playful... until we get back home."  
Prince cried out in open dismay at that, prompting Raphael to laugh once more. A few more commands and then the group set off, Raphael, Prince, a handful of his more potent soldiers--and Alphonse. He'd not been given a choice in the matter. Luke watched him go, mournful, from beside the crack of their tent.  
They had made their camp at the foot of several sweeping peaks, and now they and their horses began the tiresome process of ascending one. A thin and marginal path snaked up the side, and it was this they followed, drifting slowly from the shift of one sheer cliff to another as the sun sank behind them, crowning the horizon in red. It would have been a deadly place to be attacked--a hail of arrows from higher up would almost certainly have killed all of them--but Raphael knew no such assault would come here. As much as the southern tribes hated his people, they feared the lord of the town more, and Bakkor would tolerate no disruption with his northern trade lines.  
As the minutes ticked by, Alphonse began to become VERY skeptical that any real village could exist here. The passes were one thin line after another, and the valleys between were just as narrow. There was simply nowhere to--  
Then they rounded the bend, and despite himself, Alphonse gaped.  
Where there should have been nothing but more thin crevices there was a massive HOLLOW, the edges of two mountains scraped into semi-circles, as if something of incomhrensible size had simply punched its way through the offendingly small gap. Nestled in the remains--and in some cases, carved out of them--was the dark shape of a town, red lights flickering out from misshapen windows and from smaller holes dug into the rock itself. Raphael smiled thinly.  
"Some say the Demon of Mastem passed through here once, and carved it out as it did so. Some of them also say one day it'll come back."  
A few of his men laughed; others look sober. Raphael clucked to his horse and the regiment moved on.  
The town was as ugly as the rumors behind it. As they finally reached the crumbling edges--and began to move in--Alphonse wrinkled his nose, and found himself rather reluctantly grateful to have a ring of armed men around him. Strange and rough voices chattered in the darkness, shadows skitting from one half ruined building to the next, cold eyes meeting their own as they passed through. The ruins and their filth were nothing like the splendor of Amakiz, and while there was some vegetation there, none of it was green.  
Their course drew them nearer and nearer to a long, sloping building extending from the side of the left mountain--presumably their destination. As they drew near a stocky and balding man ran out to meet them, grinning with golden teeth and throwing his arms wide.  
"Aw well if it isn't my favorite bastard! Cultists and kings still haven't killed you yet, eh?"  
"Unfortunately not, Harvel. If they had, I wouldn't have had to see /you/ again."  
The man laughed; Alphonse guessed this was their acquaintance.  
"I missed you too, you ugly fuck! Now come on in and get settled, this fight's going to be great!"  
Raphael sighed; he'd known from the start that attempting to get the man to talk anything useful beforehand was pointless, but he'd still dared to hope. He dismounted and helped Prince do so as well--leaving Alphonse to struggle down on his own (which, to the guard’s amusement, the boy did quite nimbly)--and then with a few quick orders two of his men had taken the reins and stayed behind to watch the horses as the rest of the group moved towards the building. The man was chattering about the upcoming fight (not a lethal fight, sadly, he'd told them, but it was going to be amazing as hells anyway, they'd see--), Raphael was making pathetic attempts to talk about the local tribes, Prince was clinging as closely to his master's side as possible and looking mildly terrified.  
Alphonse did none of these things, simply drifting along passively--but then he stiffened.  
It had only been a glimpse. It might have been in his mind. But ahead, swinging sharply around the corner of the building and through the door, he thought he'd seen small figures. The masked things known as goblins.  
And, more than that, he thought he'd seen the one who'd sold him.  
All of a sudden, the same blind rage that had led him to attack Prince took him now, letting him put the blame on someone, someone he could fight, someone he could punish for what had happened to him. A guard behind him shoved him forward where he’d stopped in his tracks. He stumbled a few feet, regained his balance, and then shot like a bullet after the figure’s shadows, the sudden sound of jingling bells alerting his master that the boy was in motion.  
"By the HELLS--"  
Prince squeaked as he was shoved rapidly backwards, into the sturdy arms of one of the guards; Raphael and several others had shot forward, the warlord at the head of the group, snarling and leaving a blinking Harvel in their wake as they stormed after the boy.  
Alphonse had been so quick (and unexpected--tiny slaves generally didn't storm the gates) that the guards outside had failed to grap him, the boy breaking through, slamming into the swinging doors and charging. There, ahead, unmistakable--the heavy furred robes, the elaborate horns of the goblins. He couldn't see their masks, turned as they were, but it didn't matter, he'd kill him, he'd kill ALL OF THEM--  
Something grabbed the back of his hair and he came to a horrificially abrupt stop, screaming in pain. Raphael offered up several curses the boy had never heard before and got a firmer grip on him, throwing an arm around the boy's chest and ignoring his furious hitting and spitting. The rest of the group caught up a moment later, Prince and Harvel included, the latter waving off the agitated doorsmen and striding hurriedly up to Raphael.  
"What's the matter with him? Need to take a piss or something?"  
"Whatever's wrong with him I'm going to be sure to FIX it," Raphael spat, turning Alphonse around and pinning him against the wall, one hand pinning his wrists above him and the other pressed between his shoulders, keeping him pressed flat to the stone.  
"What in the hells was that about, Alphonse?"  
The boy kept struggling, hissing and wriggling and trying to get free, ignoring his question. With an angry snarl, the warlord slamming him once more against the wall, the boy crying out in pain at the motion. That seemed enough to calm his down, his struggles dying out. His breath was ragged, and he glared at Raphael for a moment before looking down. He could almost see the fight draining from the blond as he slumped in his hold.  
“I…saw someone…and I wanted to punch them in the face”  
Came the boy’s simple answer, closing his eyes and readying himself to receive the blow that would surely come from his master at his disobeying.  
Oddly, the strike never came.  
The idea that Alphonse had actually been chasing someone, rather than running around like a foolish ass, hadn't occurred to Raphael before that moment. His head twisted sharply. A few onlookers had turned their way--fights and unruly slaves were far from rare here, but it was always best to be alert. Among them were a few small figures, their bodies cloaked entirely by thick fur, grotesque masks--or at least what men hoped were masks--covering their faces.  
Goblins! What the hell were they doing here?  
The crowd quickly dispersed, no one wanting to be the one the warlord was looking for. The goblins slipped into the mass and vanished from sight. As if guessing what he was looking at, Harvel spoke, voice cheerful--  
"Weird, right? I've never seen them around before. Strange folks, squeaky voices, about a hundred of 'em. All of them tiny except this--"  
Raphael wasn't listening. He turned around and leaned in very close to Alphonse, his voice a whisper in the boy's ear that no one else could hear.  
"Did you see Girik? The one who sold you to me?"  
"…It doesn't matter, they all have masks, they are all the same…"  
"No, they aren't. And I can't kill all of them. But if you saw him, if he's here--"  
Alphonse stopped breathing.  
"Would you love me if I killed him? Answer quietly."  
For a moment the boy was quiet, eyes wide with shock, his words registering in his mind. Then the tears came, the boy choking down a sob as he slumped forward, against the warlord. He had been about to ask the man why, and then he’d answered him. Would he love him? No. Would saying no get him his revenge? No.  
The boy nodded gently against the warlord’s chest.  
Raphael knew it was a lie as much as Alphonse did. But he also remembered, keenly, what that lie had felt like. If lies were all he would ever get, than Alphonse's and Prince's were the ones he desired most. Not at all fair to the poor bastard who had sold him, but it was what it was.  
And if--by some fortune--he lived the lie long enough to believe it, as Prince did?  
Then all the better.  
He stroked the boy's hair once, gently, and then turned away, moving swiftly after the goblins. His men and slaves followed swiftly behind, as did Harvel, talking all the way.  
"Well, aren't you as mysterious as ever! But shouldn't I be showing you the way--even if you are going the right way--"  
They strode past many corridors, some dark and quiet, some reeking of ale, many filled with light and the bawling of fighters and crowds. Raphael ignored all of it. For once he was grateful that Harvel was so fond of talk, for it meant he'd have the entire duration of a fight to seek the new information he needed before he had to turn his mind to politics.  
The central corridor, at long last, came to an end; Raphael quietly turned up the hood of his cloak, and with a swift yank did the same to Alphonse's. They moved into the light.  
A massive circular room greeted them. The fire of countless lanterns illuminated enough stands, ringed all around, to seat hundreds--perhaps thousands--of spectators. Many of these stands were already filled. Ugly men and ugly women alike sneered and jeered and drank foul fluids and spat foul fluids, and money passed rapidly from hand to hand to hand, greedy eyes and greedy hearts fixed on the arena in the center of the room.  
It was a raised stone circle, broad enough for nearly twenty men to stand hand to hand across it and only barely reach the rim. A barrier that was half cage, half inward facing points ringed around it, both to keep losers from trying to escape and to (at least attempt to) keep any projectiles from flying out at the crowded watchers beyond. The gate in it was shut and locked, for the day's combatants were already inside, although not yet doing battle with one another. One was a young man with a muscular build, sitting, the other a young woman with golden hair, standing. Both were only minimally dressed.  
A man was crying out loudly above the crowd, obviously intending to drum up bets.  
"Ladies and Gentlemen, Sirs and Madams, this is the fight of the decade! Van the Bloodtaker versus Nicole the Untouchable! One rumored to have ripped a man's head clean off his shoulders, the other so vicious no man has ever held her and lived! A fight to the bloody finish! Make your bets, make your bets--"  
Much of the clamor in the room was related to this. Apparently a fight to the bloody finish was not a fight to the bloody death, a fact some were complaining about, although the majority were simply interested in making a heavy amount of money. The odds were balanced and that meant the tension was palpable, everyone making wagers, weighting the chances, the skills--  
Raphael ignored all of it, his eyes fixed forward. A stand above the rest of the crowd (and safely out of reach of any spearthrows from the ring) awaited them, and beneath it, the goblins they'd seen earlier had just met up with about several dozen others. The warlord pretended to pay them no mind, and Alphonse followed suit, both wordlessly taking their seats, soldiers and host following suit. Prince squirmed into Raphael's lap nearly as soon as he had done so--he looked oddly jealous--and the man petted him absently, but his focus was elsewhere. As was Alphonse's.  
The goblin's oddly high voices were easy to follow even over the rest of the uproar. Those who had already been seated were booing and hissing at one of those who had just arrived.  
"Bahhh, stupid Girik!"  
"Stupid SLOW Girik!"  
"This ale tastes like shit!"  
"Would you all SHUT THE FUCK UP?!" The one called Girik shrieked.  
Alphonse's hands balled into tight fists, his nails cutting into his skin. He hadn't been wrong. The voice confirmed what the mask had suggested, memories of prices being called, his life haggled.  
Raphael's hand curled gently around his waist, pulling him close enough for him to murmur softly in his ear.  
"Patience, Alphonse, patience."  
Alphonse gritted his teeth and said nothing.  
"YOU shut the fuck up, Girik!"  
"Yah!"  
"Yah!"  
"No, YOU shut the fuck up! Unpleasable bastards! I get us all the way safely here, try to find us some nice entertainment, get a few drinks--"  
"We already told you the ale is shit!"  
"I didn't want to come to the fights!"  
"You're shit, Girik!"  
Another squabble broke out; the goblins were like a mass of angry little rodents, bickering and clawing and swearing. One of them managed to bite what might have been Girik's ear. He shrieked and kicked them off.  
"None of you appreciate me! Not one of you! If it wasn't for me that sandstorm would've--"  
"You're probably the reason there WAS a sandstorm, Girik! Who ever heard of a sandstorm coming down from the GREENLANDS?! It was a curse and it's all because of you!"  
This came from the one who'd bitten him. The voice was female, although oddly muffled behind a mask with a flowing beard and sharply carved tusks.  
"Oh yah? Was it, Mirin? Fucking was it? And why would I be cursed?"  
"Because you made the ancestors mad, you asshole!"  
About half the group joined in in agreement; the rest roared. Another squabble. Squeaks of pain.  
"Our ancestors only ever enslaved BAD people--"  
"The ancestors don't give a fuck!"  
"Our ANCESTORS used to be slaves, don't you think--"  
"The elders just want money!"  
"No one gives a shit!"  
"The ale is shit!"  
"Arghhh!"  
Mirin had caught Girik's ear again; this time she sat on him.  
"I don't care what the elders want! It's what the ancestors want that matters, and THEY would never have taken from the greenlands! They hate you so much they sent a sandstorm to chase us all the way down to this godforsaken hellhole!"  
"You're a pain in my ass, Mirin!"  
"And as if that wasn't bad enough, you took something from NOEL--"  
"Yah, and he got us over half of our gold from that haul by doing so!" Someone else cried--the Girik-favoring side. The entire group had split itself roughly down the middle in agitation.  
"Think about how much more we'd have gotten if we sold the other one, too!"  
"Girik never should have let you morons keep that one!"  
Alphonse stiffened sharply. Beside him, Raphael cocked his head to the side.  
"Morons?! MORONS?! Noel wanted that one! Our SEER wanted that one! He wanted BOTH of them and you sold out for money! The ancestors are going to skin you alive--"  
"Noel always wants EVERYONE--"  
"Blasphemy! Heresy!"  
"Honestly the elders are way more scary anyway--"  
"The other one is here, actually--"  
A hundred sharp "WHATS?"  
"It's a sign," Mirin said dramatically. Girik spat. "Bullshit!"  
The mass converged on itself again, although with less fighting and more agitated whispers this time, the group switching into a tongue Alphonse didn't recognize.  
It didn't matter.  
"Other one...?" Raphael said softly, quietly, tasting the words.  
He wanted to die. He wanted to die a hundred times. What had he done—  
His heart beat so harshly against his chest he could barely feel it, the world spinning around him as the things spoke. Then the warlord spoke.  
Alphonse turned around, pupils dilated, face pale. Raphael met his eyes. It didn’t matter if he didn’t yet know, he suspected, and if he caught them, he would ask. He couldn’t kill all of them—he couldn’t even kill one of them.  
A moment later the boy lunged forward, gripping at the rails and screaming down.

“Run! Run run run—He’ll kill you! He’ll kill all of you! RUN!” The group let out startled squeaks, looking up to see his face. With that the boy turned around, towards the warlord who had stood up behind him, threw all of his weight against him, smashing his head against the man’s belly and clinging to him as hard as he could, trying his best to tangle his legs with his. Whatever happened to him, the man couldn’t get them, he couldn’t never.  
"IT'S A SIGN!" Mirin screamed.  
"Fuck." Girik offered more pragmatically.  
The group burst a second later, like a bowl of water thrown to the floor. The arena's patrons started up, yelling for a whole new reason, wondering if THEY were included in the "all" of "he'll kill you all," and among the havoc the goblins did what they did best--vanished. Harvel rose to his feet, roaring, assuring everyone they wouldn't die and could they please sit the hell back down and keep betting lots and lots of mone--  
Any suspicions Raphael had before were more than suspicions now. He ripped Alphonse off of him--so easily--first yanking on his hair and then yet again seizing him more powerfully by the wrists. He snapped orders to his men even as he ripped a strip of fabric of his cloak, began expertly binding his slave's arms.  
"You, you, take Prince back and bring a troop--antidotes, arrows, shields. You, you, and you, you come with me."  
Harvel could only watch in irate confusion as his guest departed as swiftly as he'd come, half-dragging, half-carrying Alphonse along with him. Apparently the boy was a "sign." That suggested he would be of use in discovering this... other.  
"THANK you, Noel. Mirin tried to get stupid not to come, but you know how Girik is, so he went and she just had to go along to keep him from killing everybody, and I figure you're the only one who can get him too--"  
A small goblin, babbling away at one that was, shockingly, the height of a normal man. The latter's clothing was fringed with white feathers, and his mask mimicked the same. Presumably their seer; Raphael had heard of them before. He didn't care  
His eyes were focused on the boy beside him.  
It was Alphonse and it was not Alphonse. The same body, hair, face--the same perfection--but his eyes weren't dull and broken, his expression muted with pain. He was still bright and alive, walking close beside the seer, his garb matching the goblins save for the lack of a mask. He looked nervous.  
Alphonse opened his mouth to scream, and Raphael beat him to it. He was on Noel before anyone could do anything, a knife to the man's throat, the warlord's eyes shifting between the accompanying goblin and the real prize.  
The smaller goblin shrieked, a blowpipe appearing in its hand, but it didn't shoot.  
"I want the boy. You will escort me back to my people, and then I will release the seer. Resist, and he dies."  
"Shoot him," Noel offered quietly.  
He could only wonder why he hadn’t died yet. It wasn’t fair. How could the hell he had lived in for so long now gotten so much worse? He thought such a thing wasn’t possible.

“N-no, no, please no, please…” Alphonse broke into broken please. His eyes were on Raphael, completely ignoring the other boy as he stood there gazing at them in frightened confusion.  
“P-please, Raphael, please, let him go—you have me, you have me! There is nothing he can give you—P-please let him go! I will be so good, I swear—“  
“Alphonse, what—“  
“H-he’s my brother! He’s all I have left, p-please…” Tears ran freely down the boy’s face as he was held still in the arms of a guard. At that moment, he only had eyes for Raphael.  
“I-If you do this for me…I will love you! I really w-will! I will love you more than your stupid whore ever could! I will! So please…p-please…o-oh god please…”  
The other’s eyes widened, his face filling with horror, and as he spoke, he turned towards Raphael, eyes soon filling with hatred. Raphael could see the boy drawing a small dagger from amongst his robes.  
“What did you do to my brother?!”  
Raphael shifted his gaze warily to the new boy. Pivoting so that the seer was between the two of them was the easiest solution, but if the little thing accidentally stabbed his companion, he would die with him as the goblin shot. The other solution required an assumption that this boy, while wearing the garb of a goblin, was not as skilled as one. Given Alphonse's history, he took the risk.  
The newcomer charged; Raphael kicked him deftly in the leg, the boy sprawling beside him. A quick stomp to the wrist and with a cry of pain the knife was lost. The warlord spun it away out of reach.  
Raphael felt the seer struggle in his grip, wordlessly, but he merely tightened his hold and pulled the knife in closer. Whoever was hiding beneath that mask, they weren't very strong. He repeated his order, flatly.  
"You kill him--you kill either of them--and I'll fucking kill you ten times over." The small goblin hissed. Alphonse thought he heard something--a faint, shrill whistle--and suddenly where there had been one goblin, there were dozens.  
They drifted out of the shadows all around them, the masks looming into view, the furred cloaks slowly peeling away from the darkness. All were armed with blowpipes of the very same sort that had taken Alphonse down, so many months past. The one that had been called Mirin stepped out, spitting.  
"You aren't taking him. In fact, you aren't taking EITHER of them."  
"Focus, Mirin," Girik growled. And then all of them were moving.  
It brought to mind the wolf packs that had sometimes plagued the lands around his home, but it was a thousand times more hypnotic. All the goblins circled, wove through and around one another, forming a restless spiral around Raphael. It made it hard to focus, to pick out any one shape, fur blending into fur and mask into mask. Made it impossible to guess from where a strike might come. Lesser men would have been disoriented and horrified. Raphael remained quite calm.  
He had dealt with goblins enough to know as much about them as any who lived within the desert could claim to know. They worshipped ancestors and prized family, and no matter how angrily they squabbled, they would always put kin first. No matter what ties they had formed with their victim turned refugee, their desire to save the seer would win. Half the group had already proven they had no use for the boy.  
Let them circle all they liked. Their poisons wouldn't kill before his blade could. He had a hostage, and wanted only a non-member of the tribe for his return.  
He would win.  
“Master! Raphael! Please! PLEASE!” The boy was screaming by this point, now desperate, broken sobs breaking from him as he laid in the guard’s arms, the boy out of ideas, the grim destiny that awaited him and his brother now a certainty.  
Hi brother lay on the floor at his feet, clutching the hand he’d wounded and glaring up at him with hatred that rivaled Alphonse’s own. He had yet to touch the boy and he already despised him.  
The startled yelp of his guard caught his attention. He saw Alphonse wriggle free after giving the man a vicious bite, slipping past the ring of goblins and out of his reach. He did not go to his brother. Instead he went to him. Throwing himself at his feet, clinging to his leg, looking pleadingly up at him as he stroked him through his clothes.  
“M-master…Raphael, p-please…you don’t want him, you d-don’t, I swear, you w-won’t regret taking just me—so please let them go, p-please just let them go—“  
“Alphonse!—“ His brother’s hand reached out for him and he smacked it away, turning to him with a hiss.  
“Don’t touch me!” His brother could only look at him in silent horror, and Alphonse soon turned away, towards the goblins circling them.  
“I d-don’t want to go with you! I ant to stay here—with my master! None of you touch me!” He hissed at them, glaring, then turned back towards Raphael, pleading once more.  
“P-please…please let’s just go…l-let’s just leave them, please…” One of his hands had been slowly caressing the inside of his calf, and it now moved tentatively upwards, towards his tigh, his hand hidden by the folds of the warlord’s clothes.  
Raphael normally would have been ecstatic to have Alphonse crawling over his legs. Now, however, he could just picture the little bastard trying to BITE something. Even if he had no such intent, the last thing he needed right now was dead weight throwing off his balance. He shook the boy off, pushing him towards his brother as he sobbed.  
"Whatever I plan to do will be done at the camp, Alphonse. You convinced a hundred poison wielding goblins that I'm out to kill all of them. Sauntering away isn't exactly an option right now."  
Girik suddenly broke out of the surrounding ring. Their masks couldn't convey their expressions, but the hateful sharp-fanged visage that he bore seemed quite fitting now regardless.  
Raphael glared at him.  
"If you come to the camp, you will all leave alive. I've seen what your people are capable of. We would kill you, yes, but you would kill considerably more of us. I don't want pointless slaughter any more than you do. Escort me back to my people, we'll come to an agreement, and that will be the end of it."  
Girik spoke in answer, but not in the common tongue, and not to Raphael. Noel tried to answer--only to be cut off in a hiss of poorly restrained pain, the warlord digging his blade in enough to draw blood.  
"Speak in the common tongue!"  
"We will lose them. Shoot him." Noel repeated, pleading.  
"No! You're worth more than both of them! Even stupid Mirin knows that!"  
A weak moan from the circle. Girik gestured sharply, and the weaving mass stopped moving, revealing individuals--all armed with their darts--once more.  
"Alright, asshole. Fine. Lead the way. But don't think we won't die before we start letting you take our shit."  
A crowd had gathered around the commotion, murmuring, shouldering one another, a few of the more adaptable individuals already trying to make wagers on the outcome. Still, none drew too close; even here stories of the goblins and their lethal darts were well known, and Raphael was a figure whom most had actually seen in person before. No one wanted to be caught between the two when they struck.  
Accordingly, the masses yielded when they came. Raphael took the lead, his guards following close behind with Alphonse, the goblins milling all around them, the other boy settled into their ranks. They began to move--and, abruptly, Noel jerked in his captor's hold. Not away from the blade. But TOWARD it.  
Trained reflexes were all that let Raphael seize him in time, grabbing him by the throat and yanking him to the side, keeping the knife more cautiously away from him. He didn't need the rising hisses to tell him all the little bastards had been ready to shoot the second he died. The idiot seer had tried to sacrifice himself so that they, in turn, would kill him and save the blondes.  
Raphael growled and continued to march his captive forward, keeping a firmer grip on him than was strictly needed to control.  
Alphonse was just numbly moving along with the tide when a small, furred glove seized his hand. He tried to shake it off, but the goblin held on firmly.  
"We'll save you."  
The boy's only answer was to weep.  
They met a good sized chunk of Raphael's army on their way back, the warlord ordering the whole legion to turn around, the groups moving wordlessly along the thin paths. When they finally reached the camp, Raphael was the first to speak.  
"My slave bears a grudge against both myself and you, and sought to draw us into pointless conflict. Knowing the swiftness of your weapons, I felt I had no choice but to take a hostage to defend myself. In the rush of conflict I also tried to claim something that does not belong to myself. I offer my apology on both accounts and my sincere hope for peace."  
Raphael released Noel and stepped back. The seer stood there quietly until one of the goblins darted forward and dragged him back into their group.  
"Oh. Well. That was fucking anticlimatic. Ok. Great talk. Thanks for being slightly less of an asshole than you could've been. We're leaving now. Bye. Have a nice day!"  
That was Girik, and, making good on his words, he attempted to begin shoving the rest of his clan away. That was when Mirin stepped forward. Girik groaned. Loudly.  
"We will offer triple the original price to buy that one back," she proclaimed, pointing a claw at Alphonse. "You came south to hunt bandits, right? Such funds would make your trip much easier."  
"Holy fuck, Mirin, you can't just--"  
Mirin tripped Girik without looking.  
Raphael smiled thinly.  
"We have no need of need of such wealth, and regardless, I can no longer place a price on Alphonse. Any more, I imagine, than you could on your own."  
"Well, funny story," Girik started. He side-stepped Mirin's second attempt to kick him.  
"See, maybe, if you had not been an asshole, we could've worked something out. But now we all know you're an asshole. And I don't sell our pets to assholes."  
"He's not a pe--"  
"C'mon, we're LEAVING."  
“N-no! Alphonse—“ That was the other boy, suddenly pushing forward from amongst the goblins, hand outstretched towards his brother.  
“Don’t!—“ That was a barely contained scream of horror, the slave’s eyes wide as he regarded his brother, who’d paused in shock at his words. Alphonse shuddered.  
“D-don’t…just…go, I beg you, just go—Stay safe a-and try to get back home…take mom a-and dad to the mountains…t-the greenlands aren’t safe, please Alex…p-please…” Slowly, the arm that had been outstretched dropped, tears beading in the other’s eyes.

Alphonse shuddered, closed his eyes. The goblins began ushering the boy back into their midst. Then the slave turned to his master, tearful eyes looking pleadingly up at him.  
“C-can I…can I say goodbye? Please…I won’t try anything…my place is here, I swear…”  
The master nodded stiffly, the boy’s eyes filling with hope, and a moment later he scrambled to his feet, ran forward. His brother pushed himself free from the mass of goblins, and as they met they clutched at one another, sobbing, Alphonse burying his face against the other’s hair and holding onto him as tightly as he could. They sobbed against one another for a moment longer, and then Alphonse drew slightly back, holding the other’s face in his hands and smiling brokenly at him.  
“Oh g-gods I’m so glad you are safe”  
“A-Alphonse please…please come with us—“  
“N-no, no listen, you stay with them…and you try to make it back home…” He leaned in forward, whispered into his ear.  
“And you tell them to leave this place now, i-it’s not safe while he’s around—any sandstorm will be kinder…and if you m-make it back home…tell our parents I’m dead” They both began sobbing once more at that.  
I t was a long moment before Alphonse began slowly, laboriously, dragging himself back towards Raphael. Every step took a lifetime, and he constantly stumbled, the tears obscuring his vision. When he finally reached his master, he simply dropped to the sand as if dead.  
Alex had watched him go. Mirin, Noel, and a score of others had as well. But not one of the goblins wanted to remain there a second more, and so soon Girik and Mirin alike were snapping orders, the entire group moving off. They moved with surprising speed for their small size, and no sooner had their feet touched the broken dark soil of the mountains than they seemed to vanish, losing themselves among the brittle shrubs and decaying trees that guarded the pass.  
Raphael watched them leave, turning his choices over in his head until the other finally disappeared. He could have had the boy, if he wished, and likely without a single death. Open combat would have been horrific, but if he'd kept the seer hostage, they would have yielded to him eventually. They were unfamiliar with these lands, and even with the small size of their group, they would have run out of the food and water needed to maintain a stalemate long before his army did. Even if that had failed, he could call upon Bakkor's assistance, in the name of goodwill towards Amakiz. Raphael's people could not afford to wear heavy armor, as it would roast them swiftly under the sun, and their leather and cloth garb would have been easily pierced by the goblin's darts. This was true of many who lived and fought upon the sand, and was one reason the small warriors were so feared. But Bakkor's people wore the thick armor of the mountains, and they could have crushed the enemy with relative ease.  
Yes, his choice to spare the other had been deliberate. He asked himself why he had made that decision, when he could have had two of the most beautiful thing in existence instead of one, but Alphonse's desperate pleas whirred ceaselessly across his mind.  
He scooped the boy up from where he lay and, with nothing more than a few brief praises to his soldiers for maintaining their composure, headed back to his tent.  
The boy’s fingers curled into his clothes, the frail thing burying his face against his chest while he sobbed. Raphael stroked him gently as they neared his tent.  
They went in. Prince was wailing in Luke’s arms, but he straightened as his master came in, sniffling and jumping out of the slave’s arms to cling to him instead.  
“M-master! I was so worried—a-are you alright?!”  
"I'm alright, Prince. The goblins are gone."  
With his arms full of Alphonse, he couldn't hug the other to reassure him, but he did stoop enough to gently nuzzle at his hair.  
The boy purred happily at the gesture, rubbed back against him, and preceded to babble about how he was so glad they were gone and how sad he was without him. Raphael kept moving then, towards the cushions that made his bed, and he sat down upon them, cradling the blond in his arms on his lap while his other slave followed and nestled himself by his side, clinging to him.  
One arm remained wrapped around Alphonse while the other sought his face, cupping his chin and forcing him to look at him.  
“I kept my promise, Alphonse, and you have a promise to keep yourself; your brother is free, and you are now in your lover’s arms. You should be happy, happy boys don’t cry…” His thumb rubbed gently against the soft skin of the boy’s cheek.  
The boy sobbed once more, but then rubbed the tears from his eyes with his hands, nodded shakily.  
“Y-yes…I’m sorry m-master…t-thank you, thank you so much…I j-just…missed my family for a moment…but I’m happy to be by your side…” The boy croaked, gazing up at him, his face still flushed from crying.  
“You are really a kind master…” The little blond leaned forward, and then he was willingly kissing him, trembling lips pressed against his in a gentle kiss. He kissed him back, slowly claiming his mouth while his hands ran over his body.  
Prince gaped.  
“Master!” The boy’s shrill cry startled him, Prince grabbing at his arm and shaking him, interrupting the kiss. He looked worriedly up at him.  
“Master I…I um…I…t-thought you would play with me first…yes?”  
The intreruption was not much appreciated, but Raphael knew Prince did it out of--whatever approximation of love a slave could offer. He pitied the boy, wished he could claim him at the same time as the other, but it was a fact that he could not. He was also unwilling to let go of Alphonse.  
The master did, however, gently pat the little one's hair.  
"Alphonse has a debt to pay me, Prince, and I must tend to that first. I will make love to you when I am finished with him. In the meantime, why don't you pleasure yourself? I always enjoy listening to that."  
The little thing whimpered but obeyed, shifting away--but not so VERY far away--and beginning to play with himself through his clothing, his legs spread, his bottom towards his master. He thought he looked very cute and tempting. Raphael didn't think anything about him at all. His eyes were on Alphonse.  
Tonight was the first time in a very long time that he had been (openly) called an asshole. Raphael supposed it was true. He also supposed the only things that would change Alphonse's opinion of him were setting him free or refusing to touch him, neither of which he was much inclined to do. Perhaps time would tame him. Perhaps...  
Raphael thought of letting the boy rest for the night, or of assuring him that his family's safety was now all but assured, but he knew those things would not lessen his dear one's anguish. Accordingly there was no point in bothering, or in staving off his hunger any longer.  
Alphonse leaned in again to kiss him, but Raphael caught him gently by the chin, shaking his head.  
"You won't call me master any more."  
"Yes, Ra... R-Raphael..."  
They kissed again, slow, gently. Raphael's dick throbbed.  
The hands that had been stroking his sides began to relieve him of his clothing. Soon Alphonse sat naked on his lap, the warlord gently cupping his ass, still tasting him. If he never tasted anything else he'd be well content. But he could taste the boy while he did other things as well, and so at last he broke the contact, both gasping quietly.  
Normally, the warlord would fuck his slaves in some state of half-dress, pulling away whatever offending articles had come between them but not bothering to do more. His slaves were only ever allowed the luxury if he was too impatient to make them strip. He preferred them fully naked, their exposure emphasizing his own power and dominance by contrast. But that was not what he wanted today.  
His fingers ran through Alphonse's hair.  
"Help me undress, beloved."  
The boy nodded softly, his eyes leaving the warlord’s face to trail down to his chest. He reached forward with trembling hands, and his fingers glided over his skin, towards his shoulders, pushing the man’s robes off in the process.  
He would never understand the man. Why pretend? Why insist on having him love him, when whatever he felt did not matter to him at all? He had his body already, could take it no matter what, and he’d punished him enough that he would rarely ever disobey any of his orders, so then why the word play? It didn’t matter. Whatever it was the warlord wanted, had saved his brother from a destiny far worse than death.  
In a way, it helped numb his own suffering. He did not think about the disgust he felt as the man’s hands traced all of his naked body, or how he could still taste him on his lips, the warlord’s cock poking at his skin through his clothes. All he could think was that Alex was safe, he was safe, and maybe, hopefully, he would always be. Whatever happened to him now didn’t matter; any suffering he felt from now was well worth it.  
The boy leaned forward, tucking his face under Raphael’s chin and nuzzling at his skin. His hands worked on undoing his pants, the boy licking the man’s neck while his hands grasped gently at his newly revealed manhood.  
Alphonse's touch was so soft, nothing like the strong clutches he could offer, and yet still Raphael moaned. His slave alternated those torturously light squeezes with further efforts to undress the man, the warlord shifting as was needed to accomplish that purpose, the two soon completely naked together. Alphonse simply resumed his work then, rubbing his face against the warlord's shoulder, his soft hands caressing the man's engorged shaft while Raphael's rougher hands gently stroked his back, the man nuzzling at the boy's hair in turn.  
It was a well enacted lie. Raphael knew the fable for what it was as well as Alphonse did, but no watcher would be able to tell the difference. It was as close to real love, the man had decided, as he would ever get--and that was why he craved it.  
He'd meant what he'd said to Prince. Before he had come to power he had been nothing, ignored by men and women alike, the hardened souls who were the only ones capable of surviving in their hellish homeland having no use for a boy with no family, no inheritence, and no strength. When he and Lucian had finally ascended to power, creating the greatest tribe that land had ever known, the reverse problem had occurred. Now too many claimed to love him, and none meant it. He was welcome in almost any bed he might see fit to warm, but not one held what he wanted. By the time he'd understood his misery and tried to seek something more, the harsh reality of maintaining power had made him as rough as all the rest, and every flower he reached for was crushed beneath his newfounded monstrosity.  
No, Alphonse would never love him. But he would pretend.  
Raphael slid both hands down the boy's back, one gently cupping his skin, the other reaching for his sex. The little one was not aroused yet--one telltale sign of the lie that would likely never change--but as he began to toy with him he felt the first stirrings of pleasure. They increased tenfold when he slipped two fingers of his other hand within the boy's body.  
A few gentle nudges on the man's part finally convinced Alphonse to lift his face, the two sometimes kissing, sometimes merely resting their foreheads together as each worked to give the other pleasure.  
Prince watched the scene with horrified eyes before he turned away, dragged himself towards Luke. He’d pleasured himself as his master had asked, teasingly undressing, even going so far as to call for him. He might as well not have existed, the man ignoring him completely, his eyes always on the other slave. The slave that had always disobeyed him; the very same slave that had tried to kill him. And he had told him to call him by his name too! His first master had told him to call him by name too…and that only meant…  
He slumped against Luke as he reached him, wrapping arms around him and burying his face against his chest, muffling his broken little soft against him.  
Alphonse arched and moaned and shivered beautifully in his hold, the warlord teasing him until his own caresses faltered, his fingers setting a rhythm that the boy’s hips soon fell into of their own volition, the first beads of white pooling on the head of his shaft.  
He shook, his fingers suddenly clamping down around Raphael’s dick as he moaned loudly into the man’s lips, white spurting to wet between their bellies while Raphael buried his fingers deep within him.  
Luke had gotten only a partial accounting of events from Prince; the mountain passes, the scary building, the boy sitting on master's lap and trying so hard to get him to touch him (because while Raphael had said they PROBABLY wouldn't be able to play until they got home, it had only been a PROBABLY--), and then bad horrible nasty Alphonse screaming his stupid head off and people running and him being grabbed by a guard and taken home.  
Alphonse hadn't gotten a chance to explain what had happened when he arrived. Rather, he'd started--willingly--kissing their captor, and mention had been made of a "brother," and... Luke wasn't certain he wanted to hear anything more.  
Lost in his own gloom, Luke was taken quite by surprise by Prince's sudden attachment to him. His hands absently stroked the boy's hair and drew a blanket over his shivering form, but his usual words of comfort were absent. He didn't have the heart to console him about the bastard sadist who owned them not loving him, not now.  
Meanwhile, Alphonse and Raphael reached their climax. The lord continued to kiss his slave even as the boy became too lost in release to truly return the gesture, simply crying out against the other, his hips rocking softly as Raphael's fingers guided him through orgasm. Even with no similar rhythm to maintain on his end, the man instinctively rolled his hips in turn, both males breathing harshly and shuddering as the last sprays of cum left their bodies.  
When it was over the warlord simply drew the boy close, both resting for a moment, hearts hammering together. It took Alphonse a bit longer than his elder to recover, Raphael waiting patiently, until at last the slave's racing pulse had calmed and he had regained coherency. The man did not move to take him then, or even to move him into some position in which he might do so. Instead Raphael simply lay back against the blankets, cock rising hard through a tuft of white hair, gesturing for his lover to mount him.  
Alphonse looked down at him and bit at his lip while the warlord smiled gently at him, his hands traveling down his sides to settle around his hips. Thumbs stroked his skin then, but the man did not move to pull him down upon his cock. That task was left to him.  
Deciding not to delay the inevitable any longer the boy moved. The skin of his bottom rubbed tantalizingly against Raphael’s cock as he sought to press his entrance against its tip. When the boy finally managed to align himself, Raphael’s hands moved to gently caress his ass. The boy’s skin flushed at the gesture, filling up with goose bumps as he trembled. The sight made Raphael all the harder.  
Alphonse’s breath grew ragged and nervous, like a virgin bride on her wedding night, despite the fact that the boy was by far no virgin. Ever so slowly, he was engulfed in the blond’s warm body, his flesh pulsing around his throbbing cock until all of him had been trapped inside Alphonse. The boy’s hands rested against the warlord’s belly as he straddled his waist, for a moment he lay still, regaining his breath, but then he began moving, roiling his hips atop him first before finally moving up, then back down against Raphael, shivering and moaning every time the warlord’s hard cock went inside him. This particular position pushed him deep into him, and so every time he hit something inside the boy that had him gasping for breath and blushing, his eyes glazing with pleasure.  
Once, the man knew, lovemaking of such intensity would have caused the boy nothing but agony. Now, however, even when Raphael raised his hips to meet Alphonse's plummeting descents there was only rapture for both of them, their voices rising together, the slave's skin blushing a pale rose all over as his lord rammed over and over into the most sensitive part of him there was.  
This position was a rare one for them, the younger lover for once doing the majority of the work, and Raphael made good use of his newfound freedom to admire the one so willingly riding his shaft. The boy had suffered more that day than he had in months, possibly more than he had since he had first been taken captive, and yet he hid his tears to please the one he serviced, face a picture of pleasure and pleasure alone, an elaborate ruse. All so that his master would not have reason to hunt down his brother. Alphonse was a martyr, Raphael knew, whether it was for his kin or for Luke. Such a kind and gentle soul, so much purer than his own... and all completely, deliciously his.  
Thin and fragrant sweat rose on Alphonse's body, his delicate form shivering as his weak muscles contracted with every ripple of pleasure. The bells on his chest and stomach and erect little cock danced and sang with every motion of the boy's body, his sex and pouches bouncing to a rhythm of his own setting. The blonde had no hair there to distract a viewer from his member, something the warlord had noted often; further proof that his slave was no real man, but something far sweeter.  
That final thought marked the last truly coherent one Raphael had. The ecstasy was growing, both their breaths quickening, hearts pounding as their chests fluttered at their own tempo. Every time Alphonse rose and dropped upon his master's manhood flecks of white spattered on the man's tanned muscles, the boy beginning to drip, his release nearing. Raphael was drawing close to the end as well.  
For the first time since his slave had taken him within himself the master spoke.  
"Alphonse... ha... hah... A-Alphonse..."  
Soft, tender words they were, as shy and gentle as if he were a groom pleasing his wife for the first time.  
"I... I l-love you, A-Alphonse..."

A monster like you has no idea of what love is. The thought passed through his mind as the warlord spoke, and thankfully there they remained. The only visible sign the boy gave the warlord of his thoughts was the way he shivered as he spoke, and that did nothing but please Raphael further.

Alphonse bit down on his lip, closed his eyes.

“I-I love you too…R-Raphael” The boy let out between moans of pleasure and ragged gasps for breath. This time he didn’t cry.

Raphael’s fingers clutched more tightly against the boy’s flesh, quickening the tempo, his need for the boy rising at his words. Abruptly he sat up, passionately claimed the boy’s lips. Alphonse answered with the same passion, the two sharing their breath as they tasted one another, the boy’s arms wrapping around him, clinging to the warm expanse of his chest.

Weaker as he was, Alphonse came first, suddenly arching in his hold and crying out, his seed staining both of their bellies. His insides tightening and spasming around Raphael’s cock in turn, shortly after driving the warlord over the edge as well.  
Their climax was far too short for the man, and far too long for the boy. They remained locked in embrace for the duration of it, Raphael holding Alphonse close, their hearts beating raggedly as one as their release spilled forth.

And then it was over. Not for long. The blonde hadn't even regained his breath before he'd been laid gently on his back. He closed his eyes, prayed he could pretend it was a lingering reaction from his climax that made him not look, then dreaded taking the chance and forced them open again, looking with mock devotion upon the face of the one he hated most.  
His master's rough hands were tracing down his shoulder, reaching for his chest, fingering the hard little nubs. Alphonse winced as the man touched the rings pierced through his flesh, but much to his personal horror, his reaction wasn't out of pain so much as the opposite, the gentle pulling stimulating him further. He watched as Raphael took one piercing in both hands, his breathing quick, nervous--  
Blinked as the man pulled the golden band apart, quietly removing it from his skin.  
Raphael didn't exactly look pleased about his work, but he finished it anyway, carefully removing one by one every piercing with which he'd punished the boy's body. He said nothing when he finished, simply stroked Alphonse's golden hair and lay down, taking the slave with him, closing his eyes as he prepared for sleep.

It felt so…good, to not have a single piece of metal piercing and clinging on to his skin, his every movement marked by the chiming of bells. It’d already been months since the warlord had seen fit to punish him with them, and since then he’d gotten used to them, sometimes even forgot…  
Yet it felt so refreshing to be free of them now.  
Raphael felt the boy slowly relax in his arms, his face tucked against his chest, and he smiled at that, nuzzling gently at the boy’s soft hair and breathing in his sweet scent. He wrapped his arms all the more snuggly around him, relishing the warmth coming from the soft little thing nestled so comfortably besides him, and then he closed his eyes, let the warmth and the visions of his lover’s sweet body carry him off to sleep.  
Alphonse closed his eyes and let sleep claim him as well, and for once the nightmares didn’t haunt him. He dreamed of his brother, of their house on the green hills, of warm days of summer and them laying down to rest together beneath the shade of a great oak tree…

Prince watched them from where he lay in Luke’s arms, sniffling sadly.  
His master had promised to make love to him once he was done with Alphonse, yet he’d simply rolled over and gone to sleep with the other boy after a single round, not even calling him to join, or at the very least, to fall asleep by his side. He’d been cast away.  
He shuddered sharply at that, buried his face against Luke’s belly and sobbed as quietly as he could there. With his first master, he’d never had to compete with anyone for his love. His second master had not cared anything about him at all, and it had been a living hell. Now Master Raphael had begun to forget about him…What would happen to him now?  
Raphael had almost drifted off into slumber when he felt small hands gently shaking his arm, and he turned around to catch a pair of blue eyes gazing worriedly down at him, Prince whimpering as he knelt by his side.  
“M-Master…you can ride me too now, if y-you wanted…p-please?”  
The warlord had to close and open his eyes a few times to awaken enough to answer. Usually he was a bit more alert, but his day had been... tiresome, to say the least.  
"If I wanted to take you now, Prince, I would have done so."  
The boy's eyes filled with tears, the little thing shaking like a lone leaf in the wind. Abruptly, he bowed, struggling to keep his voice from breaking.  
"Y-yes--I…I-I'm sorry m-master, forgive me, I-I won't bother y-you anymore"  
He croaked, remained bowed and waiting for the man to dismiss him.  
The misery in the slave's eyes hadn't failed to escape him. As much as he would have dearly liked to drift back to sleep, he instead pushed himself up, setting Alphonse gently down and then reaching forward to caress Prince's shaking back.  
"Shh, Prince, shh, it's alright, what's wrong?"  
Prince shook his head, still bowing and shuddering.  
"I-I'm sorry m-master…I-I'm a horrible slave, p-please forgive me…I-I just wanted…I-I want to p-please master so m-master doesn't stop l--"  
He paused abruptly at that, reconsidered his words, deflated visibly all the more as he spoke again.  
"….l-liking me..."  
At first the master was silent. Prince tried to vanish into the rugs. Then, suddenly, strong arms were picking him up, holding him close, stroking him softly. The boy couldn't hold back his quiet cries, weeping miserably into the warlord's chest as Raphael sighed.  
"Oh, Prince... my little prince, you don't understand. Everything I did was to punish Alphonse. Even telling him to call me by name. He certainly doesn't love me, and I don't love him, either. Sometimes I... I even think I hate him."  
That last was a whisper so quiet that it might not even have been meant for Prince, although he caught it all the same.  
"I shouldn't, though. I never should have bought him. The goblins never should have caught him. Maybe I... should have just let him go with his brother."  
Raphael's nails had curled into the boy's skin as he spoke, the man hunching down, close in around him. Abruptly however he relaxed, straightening and gently lifting Prince's chin until their eyes met, smiling softly.  
"But you, Prince, everything I do to you is for..."  
He paused, looked away.  
"...Good reasons. But I've been negligent lately, haven't I? Scaring you, breaking promises..."  
Raphael met the boy's eyes again.  
"I'm sorry, Prince. I swear I'll never hurt or abandon you. We can make love now, if you like. Oh--"  
The warlord's face brightened.  
"--Tomorrow I have to go back to the arena to finish matters there. Why don't I just take you, and leave Alphonse home? You can hide in my cloak the entire time so you don't have to watch the fights, and after I'll treat you to the best food in the village. And after that, we'll come home and make love all night in any position you choose, just you and me. How does that sound?"  
The boy decidedly brightened up at that, whipping away at his tears and gazing up at his master with wide blue eyes, a hopeful smile taking over his face as he shivered with delight in his hold.  
“Wonderful, master! Y-yes! I would like that very very much!” He squealed, for getting for a moment to keep his voice down with his excitement. He buried himself deeper in his master’s hold, nuzzling lovingly at him and then peeking up at him.  
The boy shivered, moving closer to the man and biting hungrily at his lower lip, cheeks going red as he spoke next.  
“M-master may I…m-may I kiss you? If master wants to rest now then by all means master should…but if I could have one of master’s kisses before that…I-I would be so happy…”  
"Oh? Just a kiss? You seemed to want more than that before," Raphael answered, amused. With his slave content and smiling again, he could afford to tease him a little bit.  
The boy let out a soft whine, cuddling closer to him  
"I-I would love more master!…But if all I can get is a kiss from you, I will still be happy"  
Instead of a reply, Prince felt a calloused hand gently cup his cheek, suggesting rather than forcing that he look upwards. He did so urgently, shivering in delight, expecting a fast and commanding kiss...  
The slave's heart stuttered in his chest.  
Raphael was not looking at him with the usual hunger. Or with any of the other myraid expressions of lust he might have used. His expression was sober, thoughtful, carefully regarding every aspect of the boy before him.  
A hand touched the center of Prince's back, guiding him forward, and the rough fingers on his skin moved to tangle in his hair. Then the warlord moved, bringing his face close, lips touching the boy's. Briefly, barely. Both hesitated as if the taste and situation were new, and Prince couldn't hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears. Raphael smiled softly, and then finally met the boy in a full kiss, eyes closing as they shared their breath.  
The boy clung back to him as if for dear life. For once he didn’t kiss his master back with uncontrollable hunger. Instead, he let himself be kissed, answering the movements of his master meekly, pushing his tongue against Raphael’s only when he was probed first, letting out muffled little sounds of pleasure as the warlord tasted him, and he delighted himself in being tasted.  
As the man drew him closer, pressed his body to his, he could feel the boy’s shaft swelling between them against his belly, the slave shivering in his hold, his skin red simply at the happiness of having his master touch him, his fears now all reassured.  
Raphael smiled. It was the truest proof that Prince cared for him where Alphonse hated him, the former delighting in the gentlest touch, the latter staying soft until forced to feel otherwise. The boy's honest affection pleased him in ways beyond that of simply a master being satisfied by a slave's loyalty, and as such, he vowed to repay him.  
The kiss might have gone on forever, just as it was, and Prince would still never once have wished for it to stop. Yet time was passing all the same, a truth accented by a sudden change in their circumstances. The younger male abruptly pulled slightly back, gasping for air, his excitement quickening his breath. He could feel Raphael's arousal growing against his own. Ah, a-ah, master had been so happy just to kiss him that he had hardened--hah, hahh--that was how much he loved him—  
"M-Master..."  
His fingers curled softly into the man's skin, and he rubbed his small hardness against his lover's far larger sex, whimpering softly and quivering with need.  
"Prince, I will confess I enjoy it when you call me that... but for tonight, and all of tomorrow, you may call me by name."  
The boy let out a joyous little whimper at that, began shaking in his hold like a leaf, his little manhood hardening all the more against his as he looked up at his master in awe, eyes beading with happy little tears.  
“Y-yes M-Mas—I mean…y-yes R…R-Raphael…Raphael…R-Raphael” His voice faded into a whisper as the slave leaned forward again, pressed his lips tentatively against Raphael’s own as he sunk against him, his body warm all over.  
This time, however, the kiss was very brief, the boy pulling back himself to stare up at the older man, still trembling.  
“M-…R-Raphael…I-I...I k-know I s-said I just w-wanted a k-kiss but…” He shivered, then tucked his face beneath the warlord’s chin. Lifting himself slightly up on his knees, positioning his body above Raphael’s hard cock, the tip of his head rubbing gently against the boy’s soft skin.  
Prince whimpered softly again, wrapped his arms around him.  
“P-please?”  
Raphael grinned broadly at that, but this time there was mischief in the expression.  
"Ah, the little prince has become so bold! --Oh, don't shudder, Prince, shh, shh, you know I'm only teasing. I'll make love to you, but I want to do something else first. Lie back, and close your eyes."  
The slave rolled backwards instantly, eyes closed even as he also covered his face, flushing red. A-Ah, mas--Raphael was going to pleasure him, it would feel so good, and then after he would claim him--and then tomorrow they were going to do so many nice things, just the two of them, all day and night--  
So overwhelming were the emotions coursing through the slave that he had to bite back sobs of joy, his member now fully erect, hard with happiness between his legs. He felt his lover crouching over him, gently lifting his bottom, his breath washing over--  
Not where he'd expected. Lower. The man began to tease and nibble and lick at a part of him that was already more than sensitive due to his excitement.  
The boy arched and cried out at the feeling of his master pressing his face against him, kissing and licking and teasing. His fingers curled on the sheets below, and despite the warlord’s orders, his eyes went open, face going red.  
“A-aah—R-Raphael, p-please…I-I’m not w-worthy…y-your face…t-there…h-haah—“ The warlord ignored him, only becoming more aggressive with his caresses, causing the boy to squeal and buck in his hold.  
Eventually however, the warlord did desist. He gave the place he would enter one last lick before he moved on, nuzzled at the boy’s soft sacs instead before he began teasing those with his mouth, licking and suckling and taking them into his mouth. The boy’s cries increased in pitch at that, Prince not trying to restrain his voice any longer, and he felt the little thing’s fingers soon reaching out to shakily curl into his hair.  
Sweet, Raphael decided. That was how the boy tasted. Like the desert salt had turned to sugar on his skin. He savored it as he suckled gently at Prince's pouches, teasing them in his mouth, tongue pressing its way firmly up the soft and hairless skin. The slave's moans only heightened when he reached out to stroke his member with a thumb while he played with him, stimulating both parts of his manhood at once.  
As before, however, the warlord soon moved on to better things. He released the blonde, kissed his sacs affectionately one last time before his lips pressed against Prince's sex. His tongue flicked out, and--as the boy had once done to him--licked him carefully from base to head. Raphael had no shortage of experience in lovemaking, but the jewel's little trick was not something he was used to. Still, he fancied he could make some guesses as to where the boy had proven most sensitive--an assumption he found rewarded when he took Prince into his mouth and began to coax heavenly noises of a most unusual intensity from him.  
His strong hands lifted the boy to meet him, lowered him gently, repeated--suggesting to the younger that he needn't restrain himself, could go ahead and thrust.  
He needn’t have bothered. The boy seemed to be so lost in pleasure and happiness that his body moved of its own accord in response to Raphael’s caresses.  
To Prince, the world seemed to vanish around them, leaving only him, Raphael and the pleasure left. It was the middle of the night, but it didn’t matter. He forgot about keeping his cries meek for his master, giving full voice to his pleasure in each moan as he moved his hips almost desperately against Raphael’s mouth. It did not take long for him to release, the warlord easily swallowing all of the boy’s sweet seed as he tensed and then finally crumpled in his hold, panting.  
“H-haaah, R-Raphael..p-please…i-inside me…p-please”  
The slave only had to ask once. Prince had not pleasured Raphael at all throughout the course of their play, a rather drastic reversal of the norm, and so the lord had been left very much wanting. Watching the boy dance to his touches and hearing his unrestrained bliss had, however, still kept him stiff--and so no sooner did the blonde beg than his master was inside him.  
Raphael slammed deep, sheathing himself instantly and completely, shoving brutally into the core of Prince's bliss. The boy's flesh contracted immediately, violently around him in response, the warlord letting out his own full-throated cry of rapture to match his pet's. The inhabitants of every tent around their own were probably awake now, but at the moment Raphael didn't care.  
His fingers found Prince's, and the boy was quick to let their hands intertwine, their lips meet, their bodies touch. It was no different, to the sight, than what he had trained Alphonse to do. Yet at the same time the two were nothing alike.  
Whenever the smaller blonde's eyes flickered open there was honest joy there, the motions he made to press more closely to his master earnest and true, the little one needing him inside as much as he needed to be inside. Countless bouts of lovemaking had taught Raphael exactly where Prince needed his cock, the man grunting in delight as he shoved against that concentration of nerves, recieved a harsh contraction of the slave's body as reward for his efforts. The boy worked with him rather than against, each quietly guiding the other in their wants, cooperating to satisfy their needs as they nuzzled and stroked and kissed one another's bodies affectionately. It reminded Raphael of how he and Lucian had once done so, but rather than feeling the bitter anger that the memories so often invoked, he was simply happy he'd found such a partner again.  
...Partner? No, slave, that was all.  
But a slave who was capable of playing the part. That was very good. He was already playing a similar game with Alphonse, so why not? Why not pretend that he had found...  
Raphael pushed deep, sealing Prince's manhood between their bodies and grinding it there, kissing the boy thoroughly as he did so.  
His loving little slave arched sharply beneath him, crying out sharply at the warlord’s motion. His sounds of pleasure were in turn muffled by his master’s lips, taking in his breath as he sampled him, grinning softly into the kiss as he felt the blond’s warm release spilling all over their bellies.

The smile faltered a few seconds later, as the boy’s spasming muscles drove a groan of pleasure out of him. Once more he pushed his hips roughly, firmly against the blond, coaxing out a sharper, more sensitive cry from him as he spilled his seed within him.

It took all he had of him not to sink down then and there against the boy beneath him and squish him with his weight.

Instead, he turned to his side, taking the blond as he drew one ragged breath after another, holding Prince close to his chest, manhood still cradled deep inside him, keeping his seed bottled up there. 

To his surprise, the younger boy was the first to recover, still drawing one ragged breath after another, but leaning forward all the same, kissing his master for however long his exhaustion allowed him to.

“T-thank you…thank y-you Raphael…I love you” Blissfully cried out the little thing, rubbing his face against his master’s even as he kept trying to regain his breath, shivering weakly and clinging to him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An offshoot of the previous chapters; since both are now at least in part non-canon but still add some depth to what I'm posting next week, I figured posting them together made sense.

Nicole the Untouchable was pissed.  
She knew why this fight was happening. She knew exactly why it was a non-lethal match, too, despite the wailing of all the vermin who wanted to see her or the other one ripped to pieces. It had been a week ago when Harvel had first dropped the idea, simpering outside of the bars of her prison home.  
"So. Nicole! You know there are a lot of very rich men who would give a lot of their riches to fuck you, right?"  
"If I had riches I'd give a lot of them to see YOU go fuck yourself. With a knife."  
Harvel sighed, tiredly wiping at his balding brow and trying to make it look like a coincidence that he was staying well outside the arm range of the devil woman.  
"Oh, come now, Nicole. A lot of your friends are doing it. I'll even put aside some of the money we make for things you might like! Some pretty clothes, new pillows, maybe some good wine--"  
"You are extremely stupid."  
"Nicole, come ON!"  
She had turned her head and snorted at him with flat contempt.  
"Same idea as always, Harvel. You can breed me when you can find a man who can touch me."  
That was why she was the Untouchable. She always had been, even before the arena. The first man who'd tried to set fingers on her when she was just a grubby child working in the fields had gotten said fingers bitten off. It was what had brought her here, and it was a legacy she'd worked hard to maintain since then. Nothing short of her being drugged would let any of them near her without her having something to say about it, and Harvel wouldn't do such a thing for fear that, Mastema Below, she might react poorly and die from it. The loss of his top female fighter was a risk he wasn't willing to take.  
And then he'd done this. Asshole! Maggot eater! She could just see his fat little body stuffed into his chair, giggling and thinking about how he'd bested her. The piece of--  
A non-lethal match between herself and the strongest male fighter. An instant way to earn himself a big chunk of gold. And a nice way to soften her up for male clients... while ensuring she'd eventually recover enough to fight at the top again. A twofold profit, one expensive and short lived, the other moderate but lasting.  
That, of course, assumed she lost. Which she had no intent to.  
She gritted her teeth. The fate that awaited her opponent should she cripple him was just as awful; men of the arena weren't as high in demand among the village's scavengers, and as such, they were disposable. He'd be either used as cheap slaughter material for another fighter or be sold off to the worm mines. Nicole tried not to think about that. Having sympathy for your opponents got you killed or worse.  
There was, however, a slight possibility that neither of them would come out much worse for wear after this, if whoever won knocked the other out cleanly and swiftly. But it was unlikely to happen. People didn't play nice when the stakes were so high. She would fight as savagely as if her life were on the line, and her opponent would likely do the same.  
Even while so much of her conscious thought was spent on brooding, Nicole's eyes never left her foe--Van the Mutilaslasheripperwhatever or something. She didn't care. A more thoughtful and subconscious part of her was analyzing what really mattered--build, strength, potential weaknesses... the answer was multifaceted, but could be summarized simply in that he was much stronger than her. She would be relying on her agility to win, not strength.  
Meanwhile, her opponent sat on the floor, all the way on the other edge of the ring. If the wall hadn’t been laced with spikes, he might have been leaning against it too. As it was, he was forced to hunch forward instead, glaring down at the floor instead of looking up at their audience, or at her for that matter.  
It was about then that their names had been announced, and the man stirred. Announcement of names meant the last seats were being occupied, the battle soon to start. With a grunt he stood up then, stretched and began walking forward, pausing only when he neared the center of the ring.  
Vibrant red eyes fixed on her own blue ones, eyes narrowed and focused. He didn’t offer any taunting jeers, none of the usual comments on how she’d not be so untouchable any more. Truth be told, if they were going by standards of wins and loses, he was untouchable too. But he had not gotten that by jeering around at his enemies. It was a waste of breath, and breath had saved his limbs far too many times now.  
This was an unusual fight too—normally he was set to fight and kill other men—but he had fought against women before too, in his early days, when an array of different fighters had been set all together to kill each other. He’d won, but they had all put on a fair fight. But this, too, was different. As he stood now, he towered over her, casting his shadow over her body. They had no weapons, further reducing the chances that they would kill each other. And yet again further reducing her chances to win. She might be a good fighter, but so was he, and he surpassed her both in size and strength. Even if she had her speed, it would only be a matter of time before he overpowered her. It wasn’t a fair fight, but he wasn’t about to risk himself to make it fair either. He’d see how fast she was, corner and tire her out, and then pin her down against the floor. That ought to finish the whole thing.  
The imbalance hadn't gone unnoticed by her, either. Harvel had no reason to risk her in a FAIR fight. No weapons, no similarly sized opponent, no nothing. She was meant to lose.  
Her fingers curled just short of cutting into her own skin, and she stepped aside out of the giant's shadow with a grimace of displeasure.  
“Run! Run run run—He’ll kill you! He’ll kill all of you! RUN!”  
Nicole's eyes snapped up in alarm; some boy in the stands was screaming his head off, a bunch of small and ugly things in mask scattering at his words, the crowd swelling into a frightened uproar. This had never happened before.  
She didn't bother hoping that whatever was going on might lead to freedom. If whoever was going to "kill all of you" was really a threat, the slaves would be abandoned to die. She instead hoped, most keenly, that all the rats clustered in the seats WOULD die. She gritted her teeth and focused all her thoughts on it as if breathing life into an ember. Die, you filthy bastards, die, die, DIE, know what it feels like--  
Nothing happened. Harvel's efforts began to calm the crowd back into a dull roar. Nicole closed her eyes for a moment--the only grief she would let herself express--and then focused on Van again.  
Desperate to get his customers seated again (and ensure a healthy intake of their money), Harvel made a desperate gesture for the match to begin. The announcer bellowed at the top of his voice.  
"Ready, and--BEGIN!"  
Before the gong that emphasized his words had even finished sounding Nicole was on the move, all thoughts of freedom or defeat gone, nothing but intent remaining. She sprinted forward, trying to circle her enemy, keeping a wide berth between herself, him, and the wall until the moment it was safe to close.  
He was ready for her when she sprinted. Despite the screams, he had not looked away. The danger was right here with him. None of those outside were fighters—and even if any of them were, the two of them were locked in, trapped like sitting ducks. He had no reasons to look away. His suspicions were further confirmed when she set her eyes back on him. Then she’d shot forward. She was decidedly fast, but keeping her distance meant he could easily turn to face her before she could reach his back. For all he cared she could keep running—the more she did, the faster she’d tire, and the easier it would be for him to finish her.  
As if she'd read his thoughts, the girl stopped. So much for that hope.  
Nicole, for her part, was just as irritated with her opponent as he was. Apparently this one had brains to go with the brawn. A rare thing in men. She'd been expecting him to do what most of her attempted 'suitors' had done--hell, what most of the duller brute women she'd fought had done--try to catch up to her and finish the task. Of course, this Van was the top of his own division, so she supposed she shouldn't be too surprised. Maybe every now and then a male with some semblance of intelligence could come along.  
Ah well. It was what it was. But she could play the standing still game, too. His eyes narrowed, and he let out a sound of annoyance. Still he didn’t move. Not ten seconds had passed and the public was already booing yelling at them to start killing each other already. When none of them did, things began flying into the ring. A cup hit Van straight on the head, its content washing down his body, the cold ale running down his skin. Even then he only had eyes for her. Then he caught the sight of guards preparing to go in from the corner of his eyes. He sighed, lifted his fingers to run them over his wet skin, took a taste of it and grunted, looking angrier than before.  
“This ale is shit” With a grunt, he stepped forward, muscles flexing as he prepared to fight her.  
She couldn't have imagined any other outcome from her stubborn game, and yet now that he was moving, Nicole looked rather panicky. There were no weapons waiting along the outer ring this time, and any attempt to simply circle him and play sit-and-wait again would just see guards jabbing at them with long wooden skewers. She had to act now. She took an indecisive step one way, then the next, and then like some terribly frightened animal shot straight for him. And up.  
She saw a second too late that her bluff had failed. There was no pulling out of it now, and so instead she kept going, arms outstretched, hoping she could twist out of his clutches and flip herself off his shoulders. Then she could get behind him, shove him over, and--  
He was faster than she'd hoped. His hand caught something that he'd intended to be her shoulder, but wasn't.  
She went redder than blood sometime between that moment and the moment when her halted flight caused her to slam heavily against the ground. An uncharacteristically gleeful swell of cheers came from the onlookers.  
Oddly, her opponent alone looked apologetic, his frown gone.  
"Whoa sorry--"  
She rolled back on to her elbows and swung her leg savagely up between his.  
For the first time ever, the man’s face filled with emotion before his audience. Namely, a mixture of pain and horror. His cry of pain was mimicked by a cry of anguish from the crowd as he doubled over.  
Nicole let out a cry of pain—which soon shifted to her own cry of dismay as the man fell forward rather than backwards, squeezing the air right out of her. Even then he was too dazed to do much other than shudder, clutch at himself and groan in pain. Nicole did not allow herself such luxury. He was too heavy for her to push off, but she attacked him either way, nails sinking into his skin as she scrabbled at him, biting harshly into his shoulder with a growl.   
The new pain sobered him up. She felt fingers curling roughly into her hair, yank her head roughly back, the taste of blood on her lips. Then there was pain, and everything went black, her ears ringing, the world disappearing around her, everything going silent.  
Slowly it all came back to her, the sound of blood rushing through her head, cheering from the stands, a hoarse voice growling at her. She was on her belly against the ground, one arm held painfully back while the other was held still, a heavy weight against her shoulder.  
“Give up or I’ll break your fucking arm”   
It took her only a moment to assess the damage. Half of her face was soaked in blood, bruised, torn. Her eye wouldn't open. Ugly but temporary damage. The rest of her was fine.  
She laughed. It started quiet but soon grew so hysterical that most of the spectators paused in their attempts to extract money from those who'd lose the bet. The pressure on her shoulder increased in warning. She went quiet then, but tears of mirth still fell from her good eye.  
"I give up."  
It had been a short and dull battle, but not so poor that their owners were likely to punish them for it. Her opponent had no interest in hurting her further if she surrendered. And the only part of her that had been damaged was the part the vultures were so fond of.  
Honestly, she'd won.  
From high up in the stands, Harvel let out a wail of misery.  
The guards came to usher them back to their cells shortly after she'd announced her loss, male and female champions trotting together amidst a ring of soldiers in silence. Well, mostly silence. Nicole kept snickering, and for once when Harvel jogged up, wheezing, she almost looked delighted.  
"You... you did this on purpose! You damn bitch!"  
She shot at him and nearly nipped skin before the guards grabbed her, all too used to her antics. Harvel yelped and cowered back, but then his face flushed red with rage.  
"Oh, that's it! That is IT! I am so tired of your nasty attitude--making a fool of me, setting a bad example for the others! Next week it's you versus three to the death, you damn bitch, how about that! I'll get so much money from all your suitors coming to watch you die that it'll more than compensate your lack of future performances!"  
She went pale despite herself and now it was Harvel's turn to offer an ugly laugh.  
"N-No--you can't! I'm worth more than that! There's no way a single fight could be worth more than what I can do for the next ten years--don't do this, Harvel, HARVEL, you're throwing away money--"  
"And it's worth it! It's all worth it! --Unless."  
His thin lips formed a very unpleasant smile, round eyes shining. When he spoke again, his tone was nearly civil.  
"Unless... well, Nicole, if you were to start behaving, then maybe you could stay. As shitty as you preformed tonight--as you BOTH performed--a lot of people have been interested in your babies. Imagine what little terrors they'd be! They'd sell for big money. So how about that, Nicole? You and the giant work on making some kids and it'll all be good. You won't even have to fight when you're pregnant!"  
All of a sudden, Harvel was lifted off his feet, Van grabbing him by the scruff of his shirt and growling.  
"Fuck no"  
A moment later he'd been dropped, and Van did not fight the guards as they ushered him aay from Harvel  
Harvel puffed himself as if he was about to start screaming death sentences for his male champion, too--but then he started laughing, nearly as insanely as Nicole herself had, when she'd stupidly thought the matter settled.  
"Oh, he's in a great mood! This is great! You two have a great time together, Nicole. If he gets too rough remind him his old man could be shipped off any day now! Bye bye!"  
Nicole's usual snappy remarks failed her. If she was still aware of her surroundings at all, she gave very little sign of it.  
No, no, this couldn't be... no.  
Suffer the loss of the only part of her she'd ever been left control of or meet death in the ring, and then go on to the after. Everyone knew what happened to the souls of those who died near the worm pits, near the mountain itself. She would drop into a hell that would make this existence look like paradise.  
Which meant the only option left, the kinder of the two paths, was...  
"You have a month, Nicole! A month! If nothing's happened by then it's all over!"  
She felt dizzy. She was carried more than walked to--not her cell, but HIS, an angry voice rising in useless protest before a lock was opened and she was shoved in and the lock was shut again. She backed instinctively away from the sound of him, but there wasn't much of anywhere to go. She dropped to her knees in a corner and stared at the floor.  
So much for being untouchable.  
The angry voice continued, the door of the cell rattled violently, the man demanding they took her out. He was, as expected, completely ignored. He kicked the door one last time, growling, before he turned around to glare at his new cellmate. The girl had pressed herself against the other side of the room, looking terrified. And conveniently sitting on his bed. It was nothing more then straw strewn in a corner with some fabric thrown over it, but compared to what other slaves ever got, it was a luxury. He’d often snorted at that thought, but he didn’t now.  
It mattered little. The ‘bed’ was barely less uncomfortable than the floor, and if he got near the girl after what Harvel had said, she’d probably fuss. Not that he had any intention of obeying him. The man wouldn’t send his father anywhere—if he did he wouldn’t fight for him anymore, not even in a death match. He’d have the girl killed as well, and lose his three best fighters in just one blow. He couldn’t be THAT stupid.  
As for the girl herself? Well it was too bad for her…maybe she could promise to follow his orders, let herself be paired with some other man, but the thing was he was not laying a finger on her, not even if there as wine involved; especially not after what she had done to him. He groaned, the soreness of his wounds beginning to settle while he took his hands to his head, slid down the bars to the floor.  
Nicole, meanwhile, hadn't even processed that what she was sitting on was a bed. The female fighters, after all, had real ones--with mattresses and pillows and blankets and lace. It was for the benefit of their... patrons rather than themselves, but they still got something from it. If they behaved. As the years had dragged on and Nicole had left her suitors with nothing but missing fingers and broken limbs her things had been taken from her, one by one, until all she had left was a blanket and a pillow. They'd tried to take that last one from her as well, but she'd put up enough of a struggle to convince them to let the matter drop. She loved that pillow. It was a deep blue with an orange dragon embroidered on it. She'd used it to nearly smother to death seveal courters. It gave her nice dreams.  
She lifted her head when a rattling noise suggested a guard had slipped a bowl of water into her--uh, Van's--cell. She was right. There were two, actually, and a thick bundle of gauze for each of them.  
She was on her feet, at the bars, and back to the bed again in a second, not wanting to linger alongside her cellmate any longer than she had to. She'd taken her bowl, but left the gauze; she didn't feel like hiding wounds that might deter predators.  
Half the water went to gingerly cleaning her face (but not her lips--his blood tasted nice), and the rest she drank down hungrily. Then, without another word, she rolled herself in the stupid man's blanket and went to sleep. She had a month. She would decide whether she went to hell proud or lived a few years longer as a bitch later on.  
The next day, when she woke up, she found out Van was going to a training session. This thrilled her. Until she found out she had to go to. Fuck.  
She wasn't going to be expected to fight, either. She was tagging along as his trophy, probably to encourage the other fighters to work harder. She gritted her teeth.  
The fighting room was broad enough to accomodate several fighters, and that's all there ever were. The guards who served Harvel were competent enough, but one and one, they'd stand no chance. Accordingly the number of slaves let out at once never went very high--no more than ten or so maximum--so their wardens could keep control. When Nicole stepped foot in the makeshift arena, she noted an older man already inside, training a younger one. She also counted four other men behind her and Van. Eight total.  
She had also noticed the eager whispers. Nicole strode forward promptly, giving herself a lot of empty space, and then turned to face them.  
Ignoring the training weapons scattered about, the men walked towards her. The guards noticed but didn't interfere. Short of the slaves killing one another--for which they'd be highly punished when outside of the ring--they had little concern about what went on.  
The largest of the four, a dark haired and narrow eyed monstrosity, grinned at her.  
"Not so untouchable now, eh, Nicole? But don't worry, sweetie, I'll still love ya. I'll just turn up the pretty side of your face while I f--"  
She executed the move that had failed against Van. She leapt, hands finding the man's shoulders, flipping herself up and over in the time it would have taken him to finish his sentence. Stupid eyes blinked at her, too slow arms reached out, but then she was over and behind him. She kicked him viciously in the lower back and caught him again in the head as he fell. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.  
The rest of the goons snarled; Nicole held up her hands placatingly.  
"Oh, c'mon, guys! It's not like I have a say in the matter. Only the champion can have me. He even gets to have me live with him. Can you imagine!"  
She could almost see the squirming in their pants as their faces lit up. Oh yah, they could imagine. Fucking filthy.  
"But, sadly, you guys aren't the champion. If only you could defeat Van, then you could have me instead..."  
Dull minds turned behind duller eyes; all their focus switched abruptly to Van. The foremost of the three got a knee in his chest and a vicious elbow to the throat. He joined the first on the floor.  
Nicole stepped back as the other two yelled angrily and turned towards her. They wouldn't be distracted again. But two enemies was better than three.  
She gestured at them.  
"Next."  
They charged.  
Nicole got in position, prepared to receive their attacks. They never came. The first of the two men fell to the floor when a wooden sword flew at his head and hit him on the side of it, blood welling from the wound. The other one came to an abrupt halt as fingers curled roughly into his hair and twisted, pulling him roughly back while an elbow was jabbed firmly forward into his back, the man letting out an agonized cry of pain before he crumpled down against the ground. Nicole blinked, and then her hands had been swept up, the older man from before taking them in his and shaking them energetically.  
“Nicole! Nicole right? My name is Nathaniel but you can call me dad!” The man proclaimed, beaming at her.  
“You shouldn’t have bothered, I was going to forfeit anyways” Van’s voice, bored an annoyed from where he stood now before the younger boy, easily blocking his attacks with a wooden sword—until the boy tried to jab between his legs. He did manage to catch that blow in time, but looked just as horrified nonetheless.  
“Hey! HEY!”  
“Hey! Those are my future grandkids you’re threatening! Watch it!”  
The boy laughed while stepping back.  
“I heard that’s the only thing that’s ever brought you down though, had to try it too!”  
Van glared in answer, caught the boy in a headlock and forced him to look towards Nicole.  
“Yeah well it didn’t go that well for the one who tried it. Do you want to end like that too?”  
“What—WHAT?! I can’t believe—I raised you better than this boy! How could you—you don’t hit your own wife! What’s wrong with you?!”  
“Well, for starters, she’s not my wife—never will be. All’s fair” Van turned towards the boy then, leaned forward as if he were going to tell him a very important secret, although his voice rang clear for all those still conscious.  
“Listen boy if you ever see a girl—don’t trust her, they are evil and manipulative and they will kick you in the—“  
“LANGUAGE Van! There are children in here!” Van rolled his eyes, let the boy go.  
“You get the drift”  
Nathaniel glared at him for a moment longer, then turned back to Nicole, beaming once more.  
“So when is the baby due, huh?!”  
Nicole had been looking between the three of them ever since her assaulters had been taken down. Not in amazement. More like mildly horrified confusion.  
They were all insane, clearly. Except for the little one. He seemed smart. She grinned none too subtly when he spoke--and then snarled when Van responded.  
She was just resolving to go try to beat his head in--there were weapons here, let's see how well he did when the fight was FAIR--when the man who claimed to be his father asked her, well, that.  
Nicole stared at him at the same time that she began to slowly lean away.  
"Does that mean soon?!"  
Her heightened sense of weirded out, however, suddenly gave way to a darker realization. She very well could have been pregnant at that moment. If she had been defeated by any of the men who had just approached her--hell, from her experience, if she had been defeated by ANY other man--they would have taken her as soon as she was thrust into their cell. If not sooner. The cries of the crowd for her rape after she'd been defeated had been quite prominent.  
And yet Van hadn't. He hadn't even hurt her once she was down, just demanded surrender.  
She blinked and snapped back into reality, realizing the man had been babbling worriedly at her the entire time she blanked out, going on about her health and even more so his grandbaby's health did she need water or something--  
"I, uh, there isn't a baby and there probably won't be one, sorry."  
Sorry?! What the fuck?!  
"Um. Anyway, uh, you... fought good?"  
It was the closest thing to saying think you she'd ever learned, so she offered it now.  
The man completely disregarder her thanks, his face filling with misery as he looked at her.  
“What—why?!”  
“Because she kicked me in the—“  
“Language!” Nathaniel glared at his son for a moment before turning sad eyes back towards Nicole, still holding her hands.   
“Come on Nicole—NICOLE! Don’t do this to me! Van is such a good boy! Half decent looking too—I raised him myself, you probably won’t find any better in the slave pits—and he’s the champion too!  
A moment later there was a thud from behind them, Van was on the floor, hands raised placatingly as the boy stood over him with a wooden sword to his neck, grinning.  
“Oh no I have lost! New champion, please go collect your new wife…and keep your legs crossed—she bites, also”  
“Van!”  
“No but seriously. Tiny here could probably use some fighting with her. I have nothing to teach him, he doesn’t have muscles to fight—maybe her little trick will be useful.”  
“Oh I already know that one—“  
“Not THAT one goddammit!”  
Yep. DEFINITELY insane.  
Because for all intents and purposes, they seemed to be having fun. Never mind that da--Nathaniel probably only had a couple years left before he either got slaughtered or sold off to labor in the mines. Never mind that Van probably fought for his life every week. Never mind that the kid was soon to join them all in hell, maybe already had. They were still making jokes and bickering quite cheerfully and generally acting like life was more than just a waiting period before they joined the Great Serpent in the underworld. It was something Nicole hadn't seen in any of the female training sessions or in the hallways on her way to one fight or another. She hadn't seen anything like it since...  
The boy looked up from gloating over his 'defeated opponent' when a shadow fell over him, and barely bit back a nervous yelp when he saw who it was. Nicole wasn't half so large as his two male instructors, but he had just seen her take down two guys all the same--and apparently she had (albeit temporarily) even vanquished Van!  
She, meanwhile, tilted her head and scowled down at him, which only made him shake all the more.  
"So you're the champion who will take Nicole the Untouchable for his bride, eh?"  
"U-um."  
"None of that! I'm not about to have a wimp for a husband. Guess I'm going to have to train you in the proper ways of combat, since these two MEN have clearly failed. How good are you with knives?"  
Apparently he wasn't very good, and so soon enough she was giving him instructions on how to improve, and on other ways he could use small size and quick speed to best his enemies (provided the fight was FU--FLIPPING FAIR and you had a WEAPON). Van joined in shortly after, giving suggestions as to how to counter the things Nicole was proposing, which led to no shortage of bickering and the two constantly suggesting techniques by which the other could be vanquished.  
When they finally returned to their cell some time later (after convincing Harvel that the unconscious men had fought amongst themselves until, marvelously, they'd all passed out--something the underpaid guards didn't care enough about to correct), Nicole was lost in her thoughts again. For the first time since the fight had ended, she no longer feared or hated her cagemate. He wouldn't hurt or touch her if she didn't do the same to him, and that meant his presence mostly gave her someone to talk to. That was, perhaps, the strangest thing of all.  
Bilateral Symmetry: She paused just as they were about to enter the prison, yanking sharply on the collar of one of the guards and demanding her pillow and blanket be brought to her. He looked skeptical, but then she whispered something in his ear that made him look in horror from her to Van and back and finally nod hastily. Satisfied that her stuff would be delivered, she moved and sat in the corner, leaving Van the bed this time if he wished.  
She was rather surprised when Van spoke--when he wasn't dealing with Nathaniel or that kid, she got the impression he enjoyed doing statue impressions.  
"What did you say to him?"  
"Oh, that if he didn't bring them--or if they THREW THEM AWAY--I'd do things to him that would make what I did to you look painless and pleasant."  
She paused, then smiled devilishly.  
"My teeth are VERY sharp."  
His eyes narrowed, but for a moment she thought she saw him wince.  
"You are the most unpleasant person I have ever met--and I have not met many pleasant ones, mind you"  
Nicole laughed at that, which did nothing to reassure him. What she said next, however, wasn't what he was expecting.  
"I wouldn't be here right now if I hadn't learned how to make men dislike me. I'd be back in my cell, with some client--"  
She cut off abruptly.  
Van sighed, looked away at her silence.  
"If it helps, I wouldn't touch you with an ten foot pole, so I guess it worked"  
"Why?"  
"Because you--"  
"Don't give me that!"  
She was staring at him as intently now as if they were in the ring again; reluctantly he turned to face her, Nicole's eyes refusing to let him do anything else.  
"I was thinking about it, and it's the only thing that made sense. If you don't like hurting people, then Harvel must have given you some motivation before the fight. Maybe he told you you could have me if you roughed me up. Or wine, or a real bed, or whatever other thing you might want. But you didn't. You did the one thing he probably told you to AVOID. Stop giving a bullshit answer. You risk a lot in defying him. So why?"  
He narrowed his eyes.  
“I didn’t defy him. I fight for the same reason everyone else here does. You don’t fight, you die. All he told me was he’d cut me some slack because of my last win against some other champion they brought from outside, give me an easy fight. I was planning on pinning you down and let it be over. And then, like I said, you kicked me in the—“  
“Ughhhh!”  
“If anything, I’m defying him by not touching you, but he can go screw himself. He says he’ll have Nathaniel shipped away and have you killed. Well I won’t fight if he does ship him. And then what’s he going to do? Lose his best three fighters and the guy who trains all those slaves he buys so cheap? I don’t think so, he’s not THAT stupid.”  
He looked at her again, red eyes piercing hers for a moment…and then she caught a hint of pity.  
“You still have only a month though…but since I was the one who refused, if you decide to go that way…” He left it unsaid, but the path left remaining for her was very clear for the both of them.  
Nicole frowned and looked away, and suddenly the anger flared up. She wouldn't be here right now if it wasn't for him and his stupid fat fist and heavy body and wrong direction fall. She would have still been untouchable.  
She wouldn't have to choose between dying or letting her body be taken from her.  
"You're stupid."  
"You're unpleasant."  
"Apparently not enough."  
A pillow-wrapped blanket suddenly came sailing through the bars, the guard hurrying on before anyone could notice his presence. Nicole caught it, hid herself entirely within the fabric, and clung to her pillow. Now the idiot wouldn't be able to see her crying, and he sure as hell wasn't going to HEAR her crying, because she was absolutely silent.  
It was the first time in years that she'd wept out of misery.  
She heard him roll to face away from her. Probably because he LOATHED her so much. What an asshole.  
One last attempt to replace pain with hate, failure, and she simply forced herself into sleep. She didn't have the dream of flight that had so long been her only comfort. Instead, she dreamed of falling without end.

Two weeks had passed when Harvel first checked in on his project.  
They would have been two pretty good weeks for Nicole, actually, had not doom loomed so close above her head. She wasn't forced into any fights, and neither was Van, their manager evidently finding her pregnancy more important than the losses he'd sustain from taking them out of the ring for a few weeks. Van was quiet as always, and she tended to follow suit, but when they were in the training area Nathaniel always seemed to get both of them talking. Tiny--the kid--did too. Maybe being in their company helped her forget enough to enjoy herself.  
At the moment, though, they were both in their cell. Van was staring blankly at the ceiling. Nicole was doing much the same, although where she imagined the statue had turned his mind off, she was focusing in on a spider running along the stone and imagining it and its friends poisoning Harvel to death in his sleep.  
As if on cue, his voice broke out from their cell door, Nicole not even bothering to look up.  
"And how are my little lovebirds today? Pregnant yet, Nicole?"  
"Nnnope." She raised two fingers in his direction, one on each hand. He snarled.  
"Well why the fuck not?!"  
"Because she kicked me in the--"  
"Shut up! I don't want shitty excuses!"  
Nicole snickered; sounded a lot like what she'd been saying.  
"The top bidder on your brats offered me twenty thousand fucking gold pieces! PER KID! Do you little shits understand that?!"  
Nicole did understand, her eyes widening in surprise. That was more than double the revenue her fights brought in for an entire year. Whoever wanted their not-gonna-happen kids so badly was clearly investing in the long term. Another arena manager, maybe, hoping for a champion who'd more than compensate the cost?  
Harvel slammed his fist against their bars--yelped, waved his stinging hand and simply snarled at them.  
"You got two weeks! If nothing happens by then I guess your balls really are useless, so I'll have one of our surgeons just REMOVE that little weak spot for you! And you, you damn devil woman, you'd better pray to the gods that doesn't happen, because if he does fail to get you pregnant, oh if he DOES, I'll just let every dark haired guy in the joint fuck you still something sticks and our dear buyer will never have to know about it! How's that sound, Nicole? I'm sure the guys you knocked out in training will love that! You might be good at fighting off snotty nobles, but how'll you do against twenty fighting men at once, eh? Eh?"  
Oh. Well. It seemed the death match was no longer a choice for her. There was only one road now. Nicole stared blankly at the ceiling, quite oblivious to whatever else Harvel was saying, the dull angry buzz of his voice eventually receding as he departed.  
Unlike Nicole, the statue for once reacted sharply at that. He’d sat straight up at his threat, eyes wide like saucers, and then he was scrambling to his feet, past her and towards the door, gripping at the bars and shaking them while Harvel walked away.  
“Hey—You can’t do that! I’m not gonna—Hey! HEY! YOU CAN”T FUCKING DO THAT! HARVEL COME BACK HERE!” Despite his yelling, the man did not come back. Van growled and shook the cage again, gritting his teeth.  
“God fucking…I am going to kill that little bastard”  
That was followed by silence, Van watching him go. Then his eyes strayed to Nicole. She noticed, went stiff all of a sudden.  
Van scoffed at her.  
“Don’t flatter yourself” And with that moved back to his bed.  
A mournful little howl came from a nearby cell.  
“Do it for the children you two!”  
Nicole ignored Nathaniel. Or maybe she just didn't hear him. Her breathing was oddly strained.  
Van still wouldn't touch her. That was good. Now she could be raped by multiple men, every last one far crueler than him, instead.  
The teeth that had bitten so many men suddenly sank into her own arm instead, her only way of preventing a cry that pride wouldn't allow be heard. A minute passed, another, and then Van turned towards her as she mumbled something that might have been his name.  
She wasn't biting herself any more, but she kept the limb raised, as if she might do so again at any moment. Her words came out widely spaced and hollow.  
"Do it. You won't laugh. They will." And they would hurt her worse. Pride kept her from adding that. She wished pride could have kept her from saying the rest as well.  
For a very long moment he just stared at her. She gritted her teeth.  
“Nicole...you don’t…it’s too soon, maybe—“  
“Please…please don’t make me say it again” More silence, then the man was burying his face in his hands, groaning.  
“I’m not drunk enough for this…” No sooner had he said it than a flask flew into their cell. Van glared at it as if it was Harvel himself.  
“How fucking convenient…”  
He grabbed it, and without looking at her, raised his arm her way.  
“I don’t know…if this might help…”  
She'd half expected him to say something stupid about her kicking him. No, that wasn't true. She knew he'd do it if she asked. She'd learned that much about him over the past two weeks.  
She also knew, of every man in the filthy place, he was the one she would have preferred. Small comfort, however, as she still didn't want to do this at all.  
Weakling. Coward. Object. Not a person any more. At least if she'd let the men do it it would've been through force, no surrender of her own, maybe she should just--or maybe she should wait, like Van suggested--maybe--  
Minutes passed with no sound but her ragged breathing, and then she moved forward. No, slunk. Her head was lowered, not looking at him, and she was tenser than she'd ever been in the ring.  
She grabbed the flask and choked down the contents. The alcohol burned, but she didn't care. Yet she paused uncertainly, halfway through, when she would have rather finished it all.  
"You... you too?"  
Nicole offered back the flask.  
He bit his lip, reached out. For a moment she thought he’d take the flask, but then he pushed it gently towards her.  
“Half a flask won’t do a thing for me…you have it”  
Nicole shuddered, looked down at it, and then proceeded to gulp down the rest. Her body felt so warm inside. The flask fell to the floor with a clatter.  
“…Come here Nicole” She shuddered, and then did so. When she moved within his reach, he wrapped an arm around her and drew her onto his lap. She shuddered, bit down harshly on her lip. He turned, putting himself between her and the door, so that her body was mostly concealed between his and the wall. She hid her face against his neck. He kept an arm wrapped around her, and for a moment they were quiet and still. He was so warm…  
His hand traced its way down, fingers curling into the fabric of her clothes.  
“I will stop if you ask”  
Stop asking! Damn it, damn you, damn everything!  
Nicole's eyes narrowed savagely, but Van couldn't see, and a moment later they were wide and unfocused again. Rage was there, but it was masked and buried under a thousand stronger feelings. Miserable, stupid, useless ones that she had barely remembered existed and didn't want to have awakened now. It was like the first day she'd been dragged here all over again, but now the dim consciousness of childhood wouldn't protect her from remembering. Every. Damn. Day.  
"I don't want this."  
He stopped, but she shook her head against his shoulder.  
"It's not as bad as the other things, though. Or thing. He won't kill me anymore, and I don't know, I guess that's good because as much as I hate this everyone says what comes after is worse--so the only choice, hah, the only non-choice is this or them, and they'll probably make it hurt really bad, on purpose, and laugh, and it'll be like coming here all over again, and I'll have one of their shitty kids, although I mean, I'd still love it, because it's not its fault its dad is a fucking asshole, but--"  
She rubbed angrily at her forehead, mad about what she'd let herself reveal and about how scattered her thoughts were. Coherent enough to talk all about things she didn't want to, too awake to sleep through this. Fucking useless wine.  
"--So I choose this. Because you're not like the other men. Or the women. You're not like anybody else I ever met anywhere. Because you're annoying and you don't talk enough but you're really nice when it matters. I mean, you don't even want to do this, right? I'm sorry. Maybe if I was stronger I could've just let it been the other guys, but..."  
She sagged suddenly in his hold, let out a sigh that was equal parts agitation and exasperation.  
"...I haven't felt very strong lately."  
His hand moved away from her clothes then, returned to her back.  
“I didn’t mean it…”  
“W-what?”  
“I didn’t mean it…when I said you were the most unpleasant person I have met…you are very…um…pleasant”  
Nicole blinked in alarm. Clearly the wine was making her hear veryyy strange things.  
But his hand had moved on her. Maybe he had spoken? Maybe, somehow, he was also very drunk at this particular moment, via means she would never fully understand. Somewhat intoxicated as she was, she agreed that logic made sense. Since he wouldn't remember anything, probably (for he must be VERY drunk), it didn't matter if she said... certain things.  
"O-Oh. Well. When I said you were annoying, I mostly meant you were handsome, and, um, kind of weird, but in a nice way."  
She paused.  
"I guess if I really had to have a husband, you'd be a nice one."  
No, that was too much! What if he remembered? Hell, had she even meant to say that? Her brow furrowed and she frowned. No alcohol of any form again ever nope.  
Van raised his eyebrows.  
“That’s enough alcohol for you …” She let out an indignant gasp, then paused as his hand cupped her chin, a thumb rubbing gently against her face.  
“I’m sorry about your face…and about…everything…you deserved better Nicole” The alcohol had her mouth open again, ready to let the words spill out. It never happened, his lips pressed over hers, warm and sweet and welcoming. She felt her heart flutter rapidly on her chest, her head spinning faster than even before, and when he drew back, she was left gasping desperately for breath. He kissed her again, on the neck, her collarbone—pulled down her shirt to reveal her chest.  
The weirdest sound left her as his warm lips wrapped around her and suckled.  
Next thing she knew, she wasn’t on his lap anymore. Sheet and hay lay between her and the floor. She was naked. His rough hands rested gently against her soft thighs. He leaned forward, then paused, grimaced as he added.  
“Please don’t kick me”  
She felt his breath washing over—there, color creeping rapidly to her face. Words tried to force her way out of her, but she was too dizzy, too drunk.  
She arched as his face pressed fully against her, warm against her warmth, the man pushing his face against that place—then there was something wet—his tongue, lapping hungrily at her. He nuzzled deeply into her and then began licking again, and the pleasure that filled her left no space for shame.  
Nicole cried out something that might have been meant to be his name, but it caught on the first sound, stuttered and turned into a different noise entirely. What was he... this wasn't... this couldn't be a required part of... the others wouldn't have... what was... why... it felt so very good and she felt warm for reasons that had nothing to do with the wine. She finally croaked out his name in full then, although she wasn't sure why. Her fingers sought his hair but made no attempt to push him away.  
The best things she'd ever felt in her short harsh life were the taste of cold water on bleeding lips and the softness of a bed. This was nothing like either of those things. It was nothing like anything she had ever experienced and thus she had no words by which it might be described. Still, she tried. It was like hot and cold and soft but solid and a thousand other contradictions but stars above it felt wonderful and she didn't want it to stop. Her legs shifted, but damn certainly not to kick him, her feet instead pushing against the cool stone beyond the bed as she squirmed. The feeling was getting stronger, impossibly, and she knew she was making a bloody lot of funny noises but she truly didn't care--  
"V-Va... VAN--"  
Something happened. Nicole closed her eyes but still saw lights that didn't exist and every bit of her was warm and good especially there and she was shaking and it felt like a miracle had occurred. She flitted in between aware and something better and was only aware it had stopped when the prison walls reformed in front of her. She was breathing hard and shallow, her eyes wide but blank as she stared forward. Her trembling hands were still tangled in his hair.  
Nicole shivered as his tongue brushed one last time against her. He pulled away, licking at his lips—or tried to, at the very least. Her fingers curled into his hair as he tried to move away. Van sighed. Nicole shivered again when his breath washed over her skin.  
“Nicole…”  
Another shudder from the girl. Slowly, reluctantly, she released him.  
"S-Sorry."  
Maybe she should have said something more? There were so many things she wanted to say, yet she wanted to say nothing at all. Now he'd probably...  
Nicole had relaxed completely during... whatever it was, but now she tensed again. Only to, a few deep breaths later, let much of the tension fall away again. It was strange, but... as nervous as she was, as odd as her emotions were, she no longer felt she was about to have something stolen from her.  
To her surprise, even after she had released him, Van did not pull immediately away to finish what they have started. He instead lifted his face to look at her for a moment, sighed again.  
“Fine”  
Nicole jumped as she felt him burying his face against her warmth again.  
She cried out for him many times, instinctively lifting her hips to grind against him. He pushed back against her movements, one hand moving beneath her to support her. The same warmth filled her, lights dancing on her eyes, everything dark that surrounded them suddenly turning into nothingness as she arched.   
By the time she regained her breath, he had moved on, gently raining kisses up her neck, until he’d gone back to her lips, kissing her. His whole muscular body covered hers, his skin warm against hers, something hard and warm nudging gently at her where the pleasure still lingered.  
Despite insisting many times that he had no idea what any of the men saw in her, he did. She was a beautiful woman, with a body molded by the fight for survival. Her blue eyes glittered under the light of the sun, and her every movement during fights was gracious, almost distracting…  
There was no need for her to touch him. The sight of her body and her cries for him had been enough to prepare him. He ran a hand gently by her side as he began nudging his hardness into her, finding no resistance whatsoever.  
"W-Wait."  
He stopped. She still had that much control over her fate. Nicole looked everywhere but at him.  
There was no sudden panicked order to get off, no nails lashing at his eyes or teeth sinking into his skin, no hands slamming into his chest. The girl did move her arm for something else, though. Wordlessly she stretched her hand out towards where her blanket lay not far from them, but she couldn't quite reach it. For the first time true desperation flashed across her face, a sudden burst of previously concealed emotion, fingers twitching uselessly--  
Van reached out and grabbed it for her, placing it in her hand. She nodded weakly at him, and then cast the fabric over both of them, hiding them from the world.  
"...Only you can see."  
For the first time since they had started she forced herself to really, truly look at him. She saw the handsome face and crimson eyes she had grown so accustomed to, but she also saw so much more. There were hints of nervousness there, although more subtle than her own, his expression concerned and cautious and... something else all at once. She could feel the strong pulse of his heart and the softer movements of his skin as he breathed, both a bit quicker than usual. He was uncertain about this, too.  
The haze that the wine had cast over her seemed to have temporarily receded, for at that moment she saw and thought and felt very clearly. She started to lift her head--flinched--tried again--flinched--and then at last moved fully. Her lips sought his, touched in something that was shyer and more tender than any kiss.  
He closed his eyes, kissed her back, and for a moment neither of then moved for anything else. But then, eventually, he began shivering. He reached out and took her hand, intertwined his fingers with hers, and then moved.  
His movements were slow and gentle, and each of them brought to her a sensation similar to what she had felt before—nothing like it, but far tamer instead. The experience seemed to be far better for him, the man interrupting her kiss to let out a shaky groan. Then he moved, again and again and again. Slowly, the feeling inside her grew. She shivered as she began feeling the same tremors from before, slowly building up inside her, her voice escaping past her lips to join his own, despite the fact that both of them were trying to be quiet.  
He kissed and nuzzled and nibbled at her, often times pausing to look at her, make sure there was nothing but pleasure in her eyes, that she had not changed her mind. And she didn’t. With each of his movements she wanted him more, her free hand reaching to his back, trying to draw him closer, fingers sinking into him with need.   
Eventually, his tempo grew to the point that he could not watch over her any longer, instead sunk down against her and moaned and groaned against her skin, seeking her lips with his own trembling ones. Her legs wrapped around him.  
“N-Nicole…”  
She barely heard him. The lights were back in her eyes, the world vanishing around them, she arched and cried out, her whole body contracting against something warm and hard in her.  
When the white finally began to fade a third time, Van was sunk against her, breathing labored as he held her close, his body still joined to hers, still sending shivers of pleasure through her every time his body moved with his ragged breath, the warmth spreading inside her.  
When he regained his breath, he pulled back, his body leaving hers as he looked down at her with worry in his eyes.  
“Nicole…are you…alright?”  
"Why wouldn't I be?"  
She answered her own question as the last word left her lips, eyes dilating. The thing which she had fought so viciously from childhood to prevent had just occurred. That which she had, over the course of the last two weeks, often compared to violent death and found less favorable.  
"Nicole--"  
"I'm f-fine, Van."  
Nicole said it so quickly that it didn't sound fine at all, but she had meant it. More words came out, trying to explain, to erase the look on his face.  
"I thought... when it happened... there wouldn't be anything left of me. That I-I'd feel like I couldn't control anything anymore. But I feel fine. I feel b-better than fine, really. I'm still me. And it actually felt pretty... r-really good."  
It felt like all the fire that had been somewhere else had abruptly ran to her face. She squirmed uncomfortably, coughed. But there was something else she had to say.  
With an effort, Nicole made herself look at him, reaching up and gently touching his face.  
"You saved me. Thank you."  
Weird words, but they felt right. Even as they made the burning feeling on her face increase. What the hell did they even mean? She didn't know. She was very tired and trying to look at him made her feel funny. Nicole changed the subject abruptly, her hand falling.  
"S-So, um, d-do you want your bed back now?"  
She thought that for a moment, a hint of color had reached his face. He’d looked away as she spoke, but at that last question, his eyes drifted back to her in confusion, blinking.  
“Um…”

His eyes strayed downwards, away from her face. His attempt to not smile failed miserably. He looked back up.  
“Not really no…actually, I think you should spend the night here” The smile turned into a grin, despite his best attempts to hide it.  
“I’ve kind of grown fond of your blanket, you see”  
She hadn't been expecting him to eject her from his bed--not really, not even when her existence had taught her to always expect the worse--but his reason for letting her stay still took her by surprise. O-Oh, he liked the blanket? That was the only reason? Why did that make her... feel...  
That was when her dizzy mind finally took in exactly WHY his eyes had looked down. There was no blanket THERE!  
She squeaked, turned red, and glared at him simulataneously, throwing an arm across her chest as she scowled.  
"W-Well you can't have it! Or these! And especially NOT my pillow!"  
The man laughed softly at her response, making her go all the more red. He stopped himself soon enough though, looking warmly down at her as he gently stroked her face.  
"Well, I was really hoping we could share…"  
He leaned down, his warm, lithe body pressing gently against hers, his face nuzzling at hers  
"Please?"  
A-Ah, why did him being so close make it so hard to THINK? No, w-wait, it wasn't that, she was just, drunk, yes, very drunk, it wasn't him at all, the dizzy warm funny feeling was definitely the very lousy wine and not how gentle and handsome and nice he was--  
It took another round of barely suppressed laughter on his part for her to realize she had mumbled some of that thought process aloud. She squeaked again, a horribly humiliating sound, covering her face.  
"F-Fine, we can share!"~~  
A thought, another squeak; she threw one hand back over her chest.  
"B-But just the blanket!"

**Author's Note:**

> The original plan, going forward, would have been for the goblins to attempt to rescue Alphonse (and fail), after which Raphael returns to Amakiz and triggers the events of Chapter 4 in A Memory of Green. I had written Alphonse's encounter with Asmodeus earlier as a "what-if" scenario, but liked it so much I ended up running with it and leaving the rest of this segment unwritten and unused. In hindsight I would have liked to use these middle chapters to flesh out the mythology and personal histories of a few characters more, but ah well.


End file.
